"The French Open Championship. Golf, you know."

"Golf! You waste all your time playing golf. I admire a man who is more
spiritual, more intellectual."

A pang of jealousy rent Cuthbert's bosom.

"Like What's-his-name Devine?" he said, sullenly.

"Mr. Devine," replied Adeline, blushing faintly, "is going to be a
great man. Already he has achieved much. The critics say that he is
more Russian than any other young English writer."

"And is that good?"

"Of course it's good."

"I should have thought the wheeze would be to be more English than any
other young English writer."

"Nonsense! Who wants an English writer to be English? You've got to be
Russian or Spanish or something to be a real success. The mantle of the
great Russians has descended on Mr. Devine."

"From what I've heard of Russians, I should hate to have that happen to
_me_."

"There is no danger of that," said Adeline scornfully.