The lady's `output' had not
been at all huge, and it was agreed that her `level' was high. I had
always gathered that the chief characteristic of her work was its
great `vitality.' The book in my hand was a third edition of her
latest novel, and at the end of it were numerous press-notices, at
which I glanced for confirmation. `Immense vitality,' yes, said one
critic. `Full,' said another, `of an intense vitality.' `A book that
will live,' said a third. How on earth did he know that? I was,
however, very willing to believe in the vitality of this writer for
all present purposes. Vitality was a thing in which she herself, her
talk, her glance, her gestures, abounded. She and they had been, I
remembered, rather too much for me. The first time I met her, she said
something that I lightly and mildly disputed. On no future occasion
did I stem any opinion of hers. Not that she had been rude. Far from
it. She had but in a sisterly, brotherly way, and yet in a way that
was filially eager too, asked me to explain my point. I did my best.
She was all attention. But I was conscious that my best, under her
eye, was not good. She was quick to help me: she said for me just what
I had tried to say, and proceeded to show me just why it was wrong. I
smiled the gallant smile of a man who regards women as all the more
adorable because logic is not their strong point, bless them! She
asked--not aggressively, but strenuously, as one who dearly loves a
joke--what I was smiling at.
Pages:
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221