A ripping old fellow--come along and
see him."
We shook our heads. No doubt our disappointment showed
in our face. It often does. We felt that it was altogether
right and wholesome that our great novels of to-day should
be written in this fashion with the help of goats, dogs,
hogs and young bulls. But we felt, too, that it was not
for us.
We permitted ourselves one further question.
"At what time," we said, "do you rise in the morning?"
"Oh anywhere between four and five," said the Novelist.
"Ah, and do you generally take a cold dip as soon as you
are up--even in winter?"
"I do."
"You prefer, no doubt," we said, with a dejection that
we could not conceal, "to have water with a good coat of
ice over it?"
"Oh, certainly!"
We said no more. We have long understood the reasons for
our own failure in life, but it was painful to receive
a renewed corroboration of it. This ice question has
stood in our way for forty-seven years.
The Great Novelist seemed to note our dejection.
"Come to the house," he said, "my wife will give you a
cup of tea."
In a few moments we had forgotten all our troubles in
the presence of one of the most charming chatelaines it
has been our lot to meet.
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