tage of the fact that elderly ladies have little continuity of conversation, at least with those whom they esteem for their youth and their sex, he asserted his presence by a very nervous laugh.
Cassandra turned to him directly. She was enchanted to find that, instantly and with such ease, another of these fascinating beings was offering untold wealth for her extraction.
“There’s no doubt what you do in a railway carriage, William,” she said, making use in her pleasure of his first name. “You never once look out of the window; you read all the time.”
“And what facts do you deduce from that?” Mr. Peyton asked.
“Oh, that he’s a poet, of course,” said Cassandra. “But I must confess that I knew that before, so it isn’t fair. I’ve got your manuscript with me,” she went on, disregarding Mr. Peyton in a shameless way. “I’ve got all sorts of things I want to ask you about it.”
William inclined his head and tried to conceal the pleasure that her remark gave him. But the pleasure was not unalloyed. However susceptible to flattery William might be, he would never tolerate it from people who showed a gross or emotional taste in literature, and if Cassandra erred even slightly from what he considered essential in this respect he would express his discomfort by flinging out his hands and wrinkling his forehead; he would find no pleasure in her flattery after that.
“First of all,” she proceeded, “I want to know why you chose to write a play?”
“Ah! You mean it’s not dramatic?”
“I mean that I don’t see what it would gain by being acted. But then does Shakespeare gain? Henry and I are always arguing about Shakespeare. I’m certain he’s wrong, but I can’t prove it because I’ve only seen Shakespeare acted once in Lincoln. But I’m quite
