“Most women’s novels seem to run off the rails before they reach the end, and I’m not very fond of them,” Mrs Barleymoon said.
“And anyway, dear, it’s out,” Mrs Bedley asserted.
“The Passing of Rose I read the other day,” Mrs Montgomery said, “and so enjoyed it.”
“Isn’t that one of Ronald Firbank’s books?”
“No, dear, I don’t think it is. But I never remember an author’s name and I don’t think it matters!”
“I suppose I’m getting squeamish! But this Ronald Firbank I can’t take to at all. Valmouth! Was there ever a novel more coarse. I assure you I hadn’t gone very far when I had to put it down.”
“It’s out,” Mrs Bedley suavely said, “as well,” she added, “as the rest of them.”
“I once met him,” Miss Hopkins said, dilating slightly the retinæ of her eyes: “He told me writing books was by no means easy!”
Mrs Barleymoon shrugged.
“Have you nothing more enthralling, Mrs Bedley,” she persuasively asked, “tucked away?”