preserved silence. Mrs. Cameron was not nonplussed. Are you, she demanded severely, reading The Martian?
The Martian? the Countess repeated interrogatively.
Du Maurier's new novel. It's running in Harper's.
Ah! yes. I remember. I looked over an instalment last night. I haven't really started to read it yet but I'm going to because there's so much French in it.
Too much French, Mrs. Cameron snapped, far, far too much French. Don't read it. I can't tell you how it's disappointed me after Trilby.
You think . . . ?
Ido. Don't read it. Read Soldiers of Fortune. Ah! that book has passion. A little naughty, perhaps, but vital. What a hero Robert Clay is, a man of nerve and muscle? Are you acquainted with the works of Davis?
Davis? The Countess looked blank.
Richard Harding. Richard Harding Davis. What a refined writer! Yet he writes with passion, too. Have you read Phroso?
Is that by Davis?
Mrs. Cameron's glance was withering. Phroso? No, that's by Anthony Hope. Ah! Mrs. Munger. Mrs. Cameron turned to greet her friend.
She's bright as a dollar, such a good mind, Lou explained. It's really a dreadful pity. You see,
