Maddison,” she began, in a voice holding a trace of dolefulness, “but I did enjoy the descriptions, which I thought beautiful. But that ‘Pauline’ of yours, well, I could hardly approve of her, could I? As for the love-scenes, they were hardly what one could call nice, were they? Yes, I read it after Martin Beausire, whose father is a parson in the Diocese of Exeter, as I suppose you know, had given it a review in The Daily Crusader. He objected to the slang some of the characters used, but I could allow that, but tell me, Mr. Maddison, why did you permit them to bathe, those two I mean, with no clothes on, although it was night-time? His Reverence”—she had referred to her husband like this when introducing Phillip to him—“read it after I’d finished it, for I wanted to be quite sure that I wasn’t being unfair to you, you see. Yes, his Reverence has written out a critique, for you to think about. Here it is, please put it in your pocket-book and read it only when we have gone.”
On starting to read this critique as soon as they got back to the cottage, Phillip thought that first impressions were not always the right ones. His Reverence was a dark horse, and knew literature when he saw it!
The critique was written on a half-sheet of paper in a tenuous, slanting fist. Barley looked over his arm holding the parson’sprose, and when they had finished it both laughed so much that Phillip had to sit down with weakness.
A work of real literature sparkling like a jewel of many facets. A story of the longings of youth in a maze of sophistry and materialism trying to find its feet. A work revealing deep suffering and aspiration, an opal. The inherent poetry glows now like the ray of a ruby, now like the glint of a diamond. It attracts by its sincerity, entrances with its psychology, it inspires by its pilgrimage of a lost soul’s search into falsities of the pagan spirit, it intrigues by its interplay of character, it stirs with its pathos, it wins regard by its fortitude, it repels by its pessimism, and nauseates by its utter ignorance of the manifold ways of the Almighty.
The Pole-Cripps’ came over to supper one night, Georgie waving a catalogue. His enthusiasm was for a new kind of motor-car which, he said, was designed for country parsons. It was cheap, he declared, with spokeless wheels, solid rubber tyres, two-stroke engine, no gearbox and no diff.
“In place of gears it has friction plates, you see, old bean, like the Ford T-model in the old days. And with no diff to go wrong, it’s simple! No repairs! It simply skids round corners, you see!” He went on to say that he was going to try to get the old mater to buy one for the old pater. “I’ll tell her that I’ll garage it for nothing in my shed. I’ll be available then to drive her, free, gratis and for nothing, whenever she wants to go anywhere. Don’t you think it a bon idea? After all, old bean, why should she be rooked by a Queensbridge garage when she can have it done for nothing, and have me as unpaid shovver into the bargain?”
Georgie’s idea to save their Reverences needless expense materialised one morning when he entered the village in a cloud of blue smoke and a smell of burning oil. The new machine was a box-like affair with a pale-blue all-metal body and dummy radiator.
“Any fool can drive it,” he told Phillip, with his usual enthusiasm. “Nothing can go wrong.”
“Not even catch fire?”
“Oh, that smoke’s absolutely nothing, old bean. All you have to do down these steep hills if the brakes are a bit slow is to shove her in reverse gear. I admit that the friction plates get a bit hot like that, but it won’t hurt them.”
“Won’t they wear out quickly?”
“There’s nothing to wear out!”
*
The holiday season was approaching, and once again Phillip felt it a duty to share his freedom with his mother and sister. It was arranged that Hetty was to come down by herself, a week before the Willoughbys were
On starting to read this critique as soon as they got back to the cottage, Phillip thought that first impressions were not always the right ones. His Reverence was a dark horse, and knew literature when he saw it!
The critique was written on a half-sheet of paper in a tenuous, slanting fist. Barley looked over his arm holding the parson’sprose, and when they had finished it both laughed so much that Phillip had to sit down with weakness.
A work of real literature sparkling like a jewel of many facets. A story of the longings of youth in a maze of sophistry and materialism trying to find its feet. A work revealing deep suffering and aspiration, an opal. The inherent poetry glows now like the ray of a ruby, now like the glint of a diamond. It attracts by its sincerity, entrances with its psychology, it inspires by its pilgrimage of a lost soul’s search into falsities of the pagan spirit, it intrigues by its interplay of character, it stirs with its pathos, it wins regard by its fortitude, it repels by its pessimism, and nauseates by its utter ignorance of the manifold ways of the Almighty.
The Pole-Cripps’ came over to supper one night, Georgie waving a catalogue. His enthusiasm was for a new kind of motor-car which, he said, was designed for country parsons. It was cheap, he declared, with spokeless wheels, solid rubber tyres, two-stroke engine, no gearbox and no diff.
“In place of gears it has friction plates, you see, old bean, like the Ford T-model in the old days. And with no diff to go wrong, it’s simple! No repairs! It simply skids round corners, you see!” He went on to say that he was going to try to get the old mater to buy one for the old pater. “I’ll tell her that I’ll garage it for nothing in my shed. I’ll be available then to drive her, free, gratis and for nothing, whenever she wants to go anywhere. Don’t you think it a bon idea? After all, old bean, why should she be rooked by a Queensbridge garage when she can have it done for nothing, and have me as unpaid shovver into the bargain?”
Georgie’s idea to save their Reverences needless expense materialised one morning when he entered the village in a cloud of blue smoke and a smell of burning oil. The new machine was a box-like affair with a pale-blue all-metal body and dummy radiator.
“Any fool can drive it,” he told Phillip, with his usual enthusiasm. “Nothing can go wrong.”
“Not even catch fire?”
“Oh, that smoke’s absolutely nothing, old bean. All you have to do down these steep hills if the brakes are a bit slow is to shove her in reverse gear. I admit that the friction plates get a bit hot like that, but it won’t hurt them.”
“Won’t they wear out quickly?”
“There’s nothing to wear out!”
*
The holiday season was approaching, and once again Phillip felt it a duty to share his freedom with his mother and sister. It was arranged that Hetty was to come down by herself, a week before the Willoughbys were
Similar Books
