I cannot say that I have at any time had a great admiration for Mr. Raymond West. He is, I know, supposed to be a brilliant novelist and has made quite a name as a poet. His poems have no capital letters in them, which is, I believe, the essence of modernity. His books are about unpleasant people leading lives of surpassing dullness.
He has a tolerant affection for “Aunt Jane,” whom he alludes to in her presence as a “survival.”
She listens to his talk with a flattering interest, and if there is sometimes an amused twinkle in her eye I am sure he never notices it.
He fastened on Griselda at once with flattering abruptness. They discussed modern plays and from there went on to modern schemes of decoration. Griselda affects to laugh at Raymond West, but she is, I think, susceptible to his conversation.
During my (dull) conversation with Miss Marple, I heard at intervals the reiteration “buried as you are down here.”
It began at last to irritate me. I said suddenly:
“I suppose you consider us very much out of the things down here?”
Raymond West waved his cigarette.
“I regard St. Mary Mead,” he said authoritatively, “as a stagnant pool.”
He looked at us, prepared for resentment at his statement, but somewhat, I think, to his chagrin, no one displayed annoyance.