We were all sure of that. “But,” we pressed her, “do they write good books?”
“Good books?” she said, looking at the ceiling. “You must remember,” she began, speaking with extreme rapidity, “that fiction is the mirror of life. And you can’t deny that education is of the highest importance, and that it would be extremely annoying, if you found yourself alone at Brighton late at night, not to know which was the best boarding house to stay at, and suppose it was a dripping Sunday evening—wouldn’t it be nice to go to the Movies?”
“But what has that got to do with it?” we asked.
“Nothing—nothing-nothing whatever,” she replied.
‘Well, tell us the truth,” we bade her.
“The truth? But isn’t it wonderful,” she broke off—“Mr. Chitter has written a weekly article for the past thirty years upon love or hot buttered toast and has sent all his sons to Eton———”
