"Bother your books and things!" she would say. "I want a girl with some knowledge of housework. Is she going to get it out of them?"
"Certainly, if she looks for it in the proper quarter."
"And pray, what do you call the proper quarter?" Mrs Bloxam looked at me in a way I particularly dislike, as if I were an inferior animal. "You are yourself such an omnivorous reader that no doubt you will be able to throw light upon the subject."
I knew what she meant, but I declined to let her see it.
"It is true that I do not read trashy novels, or sickly love tales, which present a false picture of the stern realities of life. I confine my attention to works of a higher class."
"There are not many of them published, are there?"
"What do you mean?"
"Because I have never seen you read anything but newspapers since we were married, and I doubt if you ever read a whole book through in your life."
The assertion took my breath away. But I declined to argue. I always do decline when circumstances permit. They did most clearly then. Though, when I considered the matter afterwards, I perceived that, had I chosen, I might have overwhelmed her with the force of my reasoning. In my opinion, reading is a finite process. I read a great deal when I was a lad, though I do not quite remember what. There the matter ended. Life is, as it were, divided into sections. Each section should be devoted to a different object. For me the section devoted to reading is passed.
The bombshell fell while we were at dinner, and while Jane was still in the room.