Last year he made me read Meredith--the novels, I mean.

_One of Our Conquerors_, he vowed, was the finest thing ever written.

He scoffed at me for liking _Diana_ and _Richard Feverel_ better, because they were easier.

And _now_, nothing's bad enough for Meredith's 'stilted nonsense'-- 'characters without a spark of life in them'-- 'horrible mannerisms'-- you should hear him.

Except the poems--ah, except the poems! He daren't touch them.