hand that held the meerschaum.

"Crocker, Shelton," he said.

An awkward silence followed. Shelton tried to rouse the cultured portion
of his wits; but the sense that nothing would be treated seriously
paralysed his faculties; he stayed silent, staring at the glowing tip of
his cigar. It seemed to him unfair to have intruded on these gentlemen
without its having been made quite clear to them beforehand who and what
he was; he rose to take his leave, but Washer had begun to speak.

"Madame Bovary!" he said quizzically, reading the title of the book on
the little fat man's bookrest; and, holding it closer to his
boiled-looking eyes, he repeated, as though it were a joke, "Madame
Bovary!"

"Do you mean to say, Turl, that you can stand that stuff?" said Berryman.

As might have been expected, this celebrated novel's name had galvanised
him into life; he strolled over to the bookcase, took down a book, opened
it, and began to read, wandering in a desultory way about the room.

"Ha! Berryman," said a conciliatory voice behind--it came from Trimmer,
who had set his back against the hearth, and grasped with either hand a
fistful of his gown--"the book's a classic!"

"Classic!" exclaimed Berryman, transfixing Shelton with his eyes; "the
fellow ought to have been horsewhipped for writing such putridity!"

A feeling of hostility instantly sprang up in Shelton; he looked at his
little host, who, however, merely blinked.

"Berryman only means," explains Washer, a certain malice in his smile,
"that the author is n't one of his particular pets."

"For God's sake, you know, don't get Berryman on his horse!" growled the
little fat man suddenly.

Berryman returned his volume to the shelf and took another down. There
was something almost godlike in his sarcastic absent-mindedness.

"Imagine a man writing that stuff," he said, "if he'd ever been at Eton!
What do we want to know about that sort of thing? A writer should be a
sportsman and a gentleman"; and again he looked down over his chin at
Shelton, as though expecting him to controvert the sentiment.

"Don't you--" began the latter.

But Berryman's attention had wandered to the wall.

"I really don't care," said he, "to know what a woman feels when she is
going to the dogs; it does n't interest me."

The voice of Trimmer made things pleasant:

"Question of moral standards, that, and nothing more."

He had stretched his legs like compasses,--and the way he graspe