"What would my poor little opinion be worth?"
"Everything. A really unbiassed judgment is the rarest thing in the world, and there's always a charm about naïve criticism."
"I couldn't put the book down. Can I say more?"
"Yes, of course you can say more. You can tell me which legend you disliked least; you can criticise my hero's conduct, and find fault with my heroine's manners; you can object to my plot, pick holes in my style. No, thank goodness, you can't do that; but you can take exception to my morality."
She sat silent, waiting for her cue, and trying to collect her thoughts, which were fluttering all abroad in generalities.
He went on with a touch of bitterness in his voice—
"I thought so. It's the old stumbling-block—my morality. If it hadn't been for that, you would have told me, wouldn't you? that my figures breathe and move, that every touch is true to life. But you daren't. You are afraid of reality; facts are so immoral."
It would be impossible to describe the accent of scorn which Wyndham threw into this last word.
"I thought your book very clever—in spite of the facts."
"Facts or no facts, you'd rather have your beliefs, wouldn't you?"