“Have you also a goat on the premises?” we asked.
“Oh, certainly. A ripping old fellow—come along and see him.”
We shook our heads. No doubt our disappointment showed in our face. It often does. We felt that it was altogether right and wholesome that our great novels of to-day should be written in this fashion with the help of goats, dogs, hogs and young bulls. But we felt, too, that it was not for us.
We permitted ourselves one further question.
“At what time,” we said, “do you rise in the morning?”
“Oh anywhere between four and five,” said the Novelist.
“Ah, and do you generally take a cold dip as soon as you are up—even in winter?”
“I do.”
“You prefer, no doubt,” we said, with a dejection that we could not conceal, “to have water with a good coat of ice over it?”
“Oh, certainly!”
We said no more. We have long understood the reasons for our own failure in life, but it was painful to receive a renewed corroboration of it. This ice question has stood in our way for forty-seven years
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