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 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 he and what