He professed not to care
for Thomas Hardy's "Jude the Obscure," though nothing could have
been more obscure to him than the book itself or the author thereof,
and agreed with the delightful Mrs. Pollock that "The Mayor of
Casterbridge" was an infinitely better piece of work than "Tess
of the D'Urbervilles." As for the American writers, he admitted a
shameful ignorance about them.
"Of course, I read Scott when I was a boy,--I was compelled to do
so, by the way,--but as for the others I am shockingly unfamiliar
with them. Ever since I grew up I've preferred the English novelists
and poets, so I fear I--"
"I thought Scott was an English writer," put in Charlie Webster
quietly.
"What Scott are you referring to, Charlie?" he asked indulgently.
"Why, Sir Walter Scott,--he wrote 'Ivanhoe,' you know."
"Well, I happen to be speaking of William Scott, the American
novelist,--no doubt unknown to most of you. He was one of the
old-timers, and I fancy has dropped out of the running altogether."
"Never heard of him," said Mr. Pollock, scratching his ear
reflectively.
"Indigenous to New England, I fancy,--like the estimable codfish,"
drawled Courtney, and was rewarded by a wholesome Middle West laugh.
"What are those cabarets like?" inquired Mr. Hatch. He pronounced
it as if he were saying cigarettes.
"Pretty rotten," said Thane.
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