oh, yes, she had seen the book at her brother's, when
she was staying with him in Brazil, and had even carried
it off to read one day on a boating party; but they had all
got to shying things at each other in the boat, and the
book had gone overboard, so she had never had the
chance—
The picture evoked by this anecdote did not increase
Mrs. Roby's credit with the club, and there was a painful
pause, which was broken by Mrs. Plinth's remarking: "I
can understand that, with all your other pursuits, you
should not find much time for reading; but I should have
thought you might at least have got up 'The Wings of
Death' before Osric Dane's arrival."
Mrs. Roby took this rebuke good-humouredly. She had
meant, she owned, to glance through the book; but she
had been so absorbed in a novel of Trollope's that—
"No one reads Trollope now," Mrs. Ballinger interrupted.
Mrs. Roby looked pained. "I'm only just beginning," she
confessed.
"And does he interest you?" Mrs. Plinth enquired.
"He amuses me."
"Amusement," said Mrs. Plinth, "is hardly what I look for
in my choice of books."
"Oh, certainly, 'The Wings of Death' is not amusing,"
ventured Mrs. Leveret, whose manner of putting forth
an opinion was like that of an obliging salesman with a
variety of other styles to submit if his first selection does
not suit.
HYLAND
