‘Swift has no style,’ said Mr. Wedmold. ‘Swift wrote as he thought, as he would speak; so did Defoe. Style is artificial. Talk to me of De Quincey’s style, of the style of Jeremy Taylor, of Johnson, of Macaulay; but I never want to hear of the style of Swift.’
‘Give me Goldsmith for style,’ exclaimed a little elderly man seated next to Mrs. Lee.
‘And give me Paris for style!’ said Mrs. Webber, in a loud voice.
There was a general laugh.
‘These arguments are incessantly happening,’ said Mrs. Lee. ‘I wish the captain would put a stop to them.’
‘Can you follow what has been said?’ whispered Alice.
‘Some of the names mentioned are familiar to me,’ I answered; ‘but I can collect no ideas from them.’
‘Shall we withdraw?’ said she.
I at once arose and gave her my arm. Her mother remained seated at the table. When I left my chair Sir Frederick Thompson stood up, and I paused, believing he was about to address me, but quickly perceived that his movement was a mark of respect. I had scarcely entered the Lees’ berth when someone tapped on the door, even whilst I still grasped the handle of it, and, on looking out, I perceived that it was the steward or servant who waited upon the captain.
‘Captain Ladmore’s compliments, madam; he wishes to know if it will be convenient to you to visit him in his cabin presently?’