"I read some modern novels. I read Conrad, in spite of the rather absurd attitude some people take up about him; and I read good detective stories, only they're so seldom good. I don't read Nan's kind. People tell me they're tremendously clever and modern and delightfully written and get very well reviewed, I daresay. I very seldom agree with reviewers, in any case. Even about Conrad they seem to me (when I read them—I don't often) to pick out the wrong points to admire and to miss the points I should criticise."
Mrs. Hilary said "Well, I must say I can't read Nan's books myself. Simply, I don't think them good. I dislike all her people so much, and her style."
"You're a pair of old Victorians," Neville told them, pleasing Mrs. Hilary by coupling them together and leaving Jim, who knew why she did it, undisturbed. Neville was full of graces and tact, a possession Jim had always appreciated in her.
"And there," said Neville, who was standing at the window, "are Barry Briscoe and the children coming in."
Jim looked over her shoulder and saw the three wheeling their bicycles up the drive.
"Gerda," he remarked, "is a prettier thing every time I see her."