Laura put up her chin. “Modern novels⁠—no indeed. When I’ve yet to read Jane Eyre , and have only read Ivanhoe and The Newcomes once.”

She made a point of the fact that her taste was the extreme of conservatism, refusing to acknowledge hardly any fiction that was not almost classic. Even Stevenson aroused her suspicions.

“Well, here’s The Wrecker ,” observed Landry, handing it up to her. “I read it last summer-vacation at Waukesha. Just about took the top of my head off.”

“I tried to read it,” she answered. “Such an outlandish story, no love story in it, and so coarse, so brutal, and then so improbable. I couldn’t get interested.”