"Jane-Austen-Charlotte-Brontë-George-Eliot," cried Poll, like a man crying muffins in a back street.
"Damn the woman!" someone exclaimed. "What a bore she is!"
"Since Sappho there has been no female of first rate——" Eleanor began, quoting from a weekly newspaper.
"It's now well known that Sappho was the somewhat lewd invention of Professor Hobkin," Ruth interrupted.
"Anyhow, there is no reason to suppose that any woman ever has been able to write or ever will be able to write," Eleanor continued. "And yet, whenever I go among authors they never cease to talk to me about their books. Masterly! I say, or Shakespeare himself! (for one must say something) and I assure you, they believe me."
"That proves nothing," said Jane. "They all do it. Only," she sighed, "it doesn't seem to help us much. Perhaps we had better examine modern literature next. Liz, it's your turn."
Elizabeth rose and said that in order to prosecute her enquiry she had dressed as a man and been taken for a reviewer.
"I have read new books pretty steadily for the past five years," said she. "Mr. Wells is the most popular living writer; then comes Mr. Arnold Bennett; then Mr. Compton Mackenzie; Mr. McKenna and Mr. Walpole may be bracketed together." She sat down.
"But you've told us nothing!" we expostulated. "Or do you mean that these gentlemen have greatly surpassed Jane-Elliot and that English fiction is——where's that review of yours? Oh, yes, 'safe in their hands.'"