Also they talked a language that was beyond me.

This kind of conversation used to happen .-- MISS WEEKES: 'Don't you admire Ursula Jimson ?' SELF: 'Rather!' MISS W.: 'She is so John-esque in her lines.' SELF: 'Exactly!' MISS W.: 'And Tancred, too--he is so full of nuances.' SELF: 'Rather!' MISS W.: 'He suggests one of Degousse's countrymen.' SELF: 'Exactly!' They hadn't much use for books, except some Russian ones, and I acquired merit in their eyes for having read Leprous Souls.

If you talked to them about that divine countryside, you found they didn't give a rap for it and had never been a mile beyond the village.

But they admired greatly the sombre effect of a train going into Marylebone station on a rainy day.
But it was the men who interested me most.

Aronson, the novelist, proved on acquaintance the worst kind of blighter.