it should not be. She was born to the knowledge, and scarcely thought it a matter to be proud of.
“Insanity is not a fit subject for fiction,” she announced positively.
“There’s the well-known case of Hamlet,” Mr. Hilbery interposed, in his leisurely, half-humorous tones.
“Ah, but poetry’s different, Trevor,” said Aunt Eleanor, as if she had special authority from Shakespeare to say so. “Different altogether. And I’ve never thought, for my part, that Hamlet was as mad as they make out. What is your opinion, Mr. Peyton?” For, as there was a minister of literature present in the person of the editor of an esteemed review, she deferred to him.
Mr. Peyton leant a little back in his chair, and, putting his head rather on one side, observed that that was a question that he had never been able to answer entirely to his satisfaction. There was much to be said on both sides, but as he considered upon which side he should say it, Mrs. Hilbery broke in upon his judicious meditations.
“Lovely, lovely Ophelia!” she exclaimed. “What a wonderful power it is—poetry! I wake up in the morning all bedraggled; there’s a yellow fog outside; little Emily turns on the electric light when she brings me my tea, and says, ‘Oh, ma’am, the water’s frozen in the cistern, and cook’s cut her finger to the bone.’ And then I open a little green book, and the birds are singing, the stars shining, the flowers twinkling———” She looked about her as if these presences had suddenly manifested themselves round her dining-room table.
“Has the cook cut her finger badly?” Aunt Eleanor demanded, addressing herself naturally to Katharine.
“Oh, the cook’s finger is only my way of putting it,” said Mrs. Hilbery. “But if she had cut her arm off, Katharine would have sewn it on again,” she remarked, with an affectionate glance at her daughter, who looked,
