Courtney was in his element. He liked talking about the stage,
and stage people. And on this night,--of all nights,--he wanted to
talk, he wanted company. The clock on the mantel-piece struck ten
and half-past and was close to striking eleven before any one made
a move toward retiring,--excepting Mr. and Mrs. Nichols who had gone
off to bed at eight-thirty. The Misses Dowd had joined the little
company in the "parlour." He discussed books with Mrs. Pollock
and Miss Miller, fashions with Miss Grady, politics with Mr.
Pollock,--(agreeing with the latter on President Wilson),--art with
Mr. Hatch and the erudite Miss Miller, the drama with every one.
Now, Courtney Thane knew almost nothing about books, and even less
about pictures. He possessed, however, a remarkable facility when
it came to discussing them. He belonged to that rather extensive
class of people who thrive on ignorance. If you wanted to talk
about Keats or Shelley, he managed to give you the impression that
he was thoroughly familiar with both,--though lamenting a certain
rustiness of memory at times. He could talk intelligently about
Joseph Conrad, Arnold Bennet, Bernard Shaw, Galsworthy, Walpole,
Mackenzie, Wells and others of the modern English school of
novelists,--that is to say, he could differ or agree with you on
almost anything they had written, notwithstanding the fact that he
had never read a line by any one of them.
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