"Why on earth shouldn't it?" wondered she. "Novels are
intended to fall into people's hands, are they not?"
"I believe so," he assented. "But intentions, in this vale of
tears, are not always realised, are they? Anyhow, 'A Man of
Words' is not like other novels. It's peculiar."
"Peculiar--?" she repeated.
"Of a peculiar, of an unparalleled obscurity," he explained.
"There has been no failure approaching it since What's-his-name
invented printing. I hadn't supposed that seven copies of it
were in circulation."
"Really?" said the Duchessa. "A correspondent of mine in
London recommended it. But--in view of its unparalleled
obscurity is n't it almost equally a matter for surprise that
you should know it?"
"It would be, sure enough," consented Peter, "if it weren't
that I just happen also to know the author."
"Oh--? You know the author?" cried the Duchessa, with
animation.
"Comme ma poche," said Peter. "We were boys together."
"Really?" said she. "What a coincidence."
"Yes," said he.
"And--and his book?" Her eyebrows went up, interrogative. "I
expect, as you know the man, you think rather poorly of it?"
"On the contrary, in the teeth of verisimilitude, I think
extremely well of it," he answered firmly. "I admire it
immensely. I think it's an altogether ripping little book. I
think it's one of the nicest little books I've read for ages.
"How funny," said she.
"Why funny?" asked he.
"It's so unlikely that one should seem a genius to one's old
familiar friends."
"Did I say he seemed a genius to me? I misled you. He does
n't. In fact, he very frequently seems--but, for Charity's
sake, I 'd best forbear to tell. However, I admire his book.
And--to be entirely frank--it's a constant source of
astonishment to me that he should ever have been able to do
anything one-tenth so good."
The Duchessa smiled pensively.
"Ah, well," she mused, "we must assume that he has happy
moments--or, perhaps, two soul-sides, one to face the world
with, one to show his manuscripts when he's writing. You hint
a fault, and hesitate dislike. That, indeed, is only natural,
on the part of an old friend. But you pique my interest. What
is the trouble with him? Is--is he conceited, for example?"
"The trouble with him?" Peter pondered. "Oh, it would be too
long and too sad a story. Should I anatomise him to you as he
is, I must blush and weep, and you must look pale and wonder.
He has pretty nearly every weakness, not to mention vices, that
flesh is heir to. But as for conceit . . . let me see. He
concurs in my own high opinion of his work, I believe; but I
don't know whether, as literary men go, it would be fair to
call him conceited. He belongs, at any rate, to the
comparatively modest minority who do not secretly fancy that
Shakespeare has come back to life."