By Ernest Field.
'Are you going to review this?' inquired Stephen with apparent
unconcern, and holding up Elfride's effusion.
'Which? Oh, that! I may--though I don't do much light reviewing
now. But it is reviewable.'
'How do you mean?'
Knight never liked to be asked what he meant. 'Mean! I mean that
the majority of books published are neither good enough nor bad
enough to provoke criticism, and that that book does provoke it.'
'By its goodness or its badness?' Stephen said with some anxiety
on poor little Elfride's score.
'Its badness. It seems to be written by some girl in her teens.'
Stephen said not another word. He did not care to speak plainly
of Elfride after that unfortunate slip his tongue had made in
respect of her having committed herself; and, apart from that,
Knight's severe--almost dogged and self-willed--honesty in
criticizing was unassailable by the humble wish of a youthful
friend like Stephen.
Knight was now ready. Turning off the gas, and slamming together
the door, they went downstairs and into the street.
Chapter XIV
'We frolic while 'tis May.'
It has now to be realized that nearly three-quarters of a year
have passed away. In place of the autumnal scenery which formed a
setting to the previous enactments, we have the culminating blooms
of summer in the year following.
Stephen is in India, slaving away at an office in Bombay;
occasionally going up the country on professional errands, and
wondering why people who had been there longer than he complained
so much of the effect of the climate upon their constitutions.
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