There swept over me the trapped feeling one gets in nightmares. From six baskets the six Pekingese stared at me unwinkingly.
“Er—oh, all of them,” I heard a croaking voice reply. My voice, presumably, though I did not recognise it.
“How delightful!” said Ukridge’s aunt. “Now, I really do call that delightful. One or two of the critics have said that my work was uneven. It is so nice to meet someone who doesn’t agree with them. Personally, I think my favourite is The Heart of Adelaide.”
I nodded my approval of this sound choice. The muscles which had humped themselves stiffly on my back began to crawl back into place again. I found it possible to breathe.
“Yes,” I said, frowning thoughtfully, “I suppose The Heart of Adelaide is the best thing you have written. It has such human appeal,” I added, playing it safe.
“Have you read it, Mr. Corcoran?”
“Oh yes.”
“And you really enjoyed it?”
“Tremendously.”
“You don’t think it is a fair criticism to say that it is a little broad in parts?”