There, by way of a beginning, Page asked him what was his favourite character in fiction. She spoke of the beauty of Ruskin’s thoughts, of the gracefulness of Charles Lamb’s style. The conversation lagged a little. Landry, not to be behind her, declared for the modern novel, and spoke of the “newest book.” But Page never read new books; she was not interested, and their talk, unable to establish itself upon a common ground, halted, and was in a fair way to end, until at last, and by insensible degrees, they began to speak of themselves and of each other. Promptly they were all aroused. They listened to one another’s words with studious attention, answered with ever-ready promptness, discussed, argued, agreed, and disagreed over and over again.

Landry had said: