"Well?"

"Oh, wonderful." (_With emotion_) "Really wonderful."

"You see them all there?"

"Yes, yes. It's really--wonderful. Meredith--I mean--well, it's
simply--(_after a pause_) wonderful."

"You see Meredith there most?"

"Y-yes. Sometimes. And then (_with truth_) sometimes I--I don't. It's
difficult to say. Sometimes I--er--Shaw--er--well, it's--" (_with a
gesture somewhat Gallic_) "How can I put it?"

"Not Thackeray at all?" he says, watching me eagerly.

I decide to risk it.

"Oh, but of course! I mean--Thackeray! When I said Meredith
I was thinking of the _others_. But Thackeray--I mean Thackeray
_is_--er--" (_I've forgotten the author's name for the moment and
go on hastily_) "I mean--er--Thackeray, obviously."

He shakes me by the hand. I am his friend.

But this conversation only takes place in my more hopeful moments. In my
less hopeful ones I see myself going into the country for quite a long
time.