“I knew you would think so, my dear. I am always imploring Jacob to publish his sermons, but he is so beautifully modest. I am sure they would exert a great influence on the young men of England.”
“If they sold, my dear,” said Mrs. Marjoy.
“There could be no doubt on that point.”
Mrs. Marjoy shrugged her shoulders; her black hat sat awry on her frowzy brown hair.
“Cheap fiction floods the market,” she observed—“such stuff as young Strong would write. Imagine that young fool setting himself up to be an author.”
“Ridiculous!” said Mrs. Mince.
“And poetry, too! Of course, immoral verses are always fashionable. And as for the novels, I have to read such few as we get before I can let them pass into James’s hands. He is such an innocent man, and I could not let him imbibe such abomination. There is Cracow’s Renovation, for instance. I have just finished the book, and I shall burn it.”
“Please lend it to me first?” said the vicaress. “As a clergyman’s wife I like to dip into these things. One must be wise as to one’s times, my dear, or one can never confront evil properly.”
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Marjoy. “I have turned down the most scandalous pages.”
“That will save me time. I can read the worst, my dear, and so speak with authority. I will take the book home with me to-night.”