want to know why you chose to write a
play?"

"Ah! You mean it's not dramatic?"

"I mean that I don't see what it would gain by being acted. But then
does Shakespeare gain? Henry and I are always arguing about Shakespeare.
I'm certain he's wrong, but I can't prove it because I've only seen
Shakespeare acted once in Lincoln. But I'm quite positive," she
insisted, "that Shakespeare wrote for the stage."

"You're perfectly right," Rodney exclaimed. "I was hoping you were on
that side. Henry's wrong--entirely wrong. Of course, I've failed, as all
the moderns fail. Dear, dear, I wish I'd consulted you before."

From this point they proceeded to go over, as far as memory served them,
the different aspects of Rodney's drama. She said nothing that jarred
upon him, and untrained daring had the power to stimulate experience
to such an extent that Rodney was frequently seen to hold his fork
suspended before him, while he debated the first principles of the art.
Mrs. Hilbery thought to herself that she had never seen him to such
advantage; yes, he was somehow different; he reminded her of some one
who was dead, some one who was distinguished--she had forgotten his
name.

Cassandra's voice rose high in its excitement.

"You've not read 'The Idiot'!" she exclaimed.

"I've read 'War and Peace'," William replied, a little testily.

"'WAR AND PEACE'!" she echoed, in a tone of derision.

"I confess I don't understand the Russians."

"Shake hands! Shake hands!" boomed Uncle Aubrey from across the table.
"Neither do I. And I hazard the opinion that they don't themselves."

The old gentleman had ruled a large part of the Indian Empire, but he
was in the habit of saying that he had rather have written the works of
Dickens. The table now took possession of a subject much to its liking.
Aunt Eleanor showed premonitory signs of pronouncing an opinion.
Although she had blunted her taste upon some form of philanthropy for
twenty-five years, she had a fine natural instinct for an upstart or a
pretender, and knew to a hairbreadth what literature should be and what
it should not be. She was born to the knowledge, and scarcely thought it
a matter to be proud of.

"Insanity is not a fit subject for fiction," she announced positively.

"There's the well-known case of Hamlet," Mr. Hilbery interposed, in his
leisurely, half-humorous tones.

"Ah, but poetry's different, Trevor," said Aunt Eleanor, as if she had
special authority from Shak