Leaning back, Richard surveyed the waves.
“That’s a very pretty blue,” he said. “But there’s a little too much of it. Variety is essential to a view. Thus, if you have hills you ought to have a river; if a river, hills. The best view in the world in my opinion is that from Boars Hill on a fine day—it must be a fine day, mark you—A rug?—Oh, thank you, my dear . . . in that case you have also the advantage of associations—the Past.”
“D’you want to talk, Dick, or shall I read aloud?”
Clarissa had fetched a book with the rugs.
“Persuasion,” announced Richard, examining the volume.
“That’s for Miss Vinrace,” said Clarissa. “She can’t bear our beloved Jane.”
“That—if I may say so—is because you have not read her,” said Richard. “She is incomparably the greatest female writer we possess.”
“She is the greatest,” he continued, “and for this reason: she does not attempt to write like a man. Every other woman does; on that account, I don’t read ’em.”
“Produce your instances, Miss Vinrace,” he went on, joining his finger-tips. “I’m ready to be converted.”
He waited, while Rachel vainly tried to vindicate her sex from the slight he put upon it.