Is Art merely a question of geography, and if so what is the exact limit?
Is it the four-mile cab radius from Charing Cross?
Is the cheesemonger of Tottenham Court Road of necessity a man of taste, and the Oxford professor of necessity a Philistine?
I want to understand this thing.

I once hazarded the direct question to a critical friend: "You say a book is suburban," I put it to him, "and there is an end to the matter.

But what do you mean by suburban ?" "Well," he replied, "I mean it is the sort of book likely to appeal to the class that inhabits the suburbs." He lived himself in Chancery Lane.
May a man of intelligence live, say, in Surbiton?
"But there is Jones, the editor of _The Evening Gentleman_," I argued; "he lives at Surbiton.

It is just twelve miles from Waterloo.

He comes up every morning by the eight-fifteen and returns again by the five-ten.
Would you say that a book is bound to be bad because it appeals to Jones?
Then again, take Tomlinson: he lives, as you are well aware, at Forest Gate which is Epping way, and entertains you on Kakemonos whenever you call upon him.