“What are you talking about?” said McHarg, pausing suddenly, half-turning, and glaring fiercely. “I suppose you mean Hugh Walpole, and John Galsworthy, and other dangerous radicals of that sort, eh?”
“No, sir,” said Mr. Stoat deliberately. “I was not thinking of them. I was referring to that concocter of incoherent nonsense, that purveyor of filth, the master of obscenity, who wrote that book so few people can read, and no one can understand, but which some of our young men are hailing enthusiastically as the greatest masterpiece of the century.”
“What book are you talking about anyway?” McHarg said irritably. “Its name, I believe,” said Mr. Stoat pompously, “is Ulysses. Its author, I have heard, is an Irishman.”
“Oh,” cried McHarg with an air of enlightenment, and with an impish gleam in his eye that was quite lost on Mr. Stoat. “You’re speaking of George Moore, aren’t you?”
“That’s it! That’s it!” cried Mr. Stoat quickly, nodding his head with satisfaction. He was getting excited now. His eyebrows twitched more rapidly than ever. “That’s the fellow! And the book”—he sputtered—“pah!” He spat out the word as though it had been brought up by an emetic, and screwed the eyebrows round across his domy forehead in an expression of nausea. “I tried to read a few pages of it once,” he whispered sonorously and dramatically, “but I let it fall. I let it fall. As though I bad touched a tainted thing, I let it fall. And then,” he said hoarsely, “I washed my hands, with a very—strong—soap.”
“My dear sir,” cried McHarg suddenly, with an air of sincere conviction, at the same time being unable to keep his eye from gleaming more impishly than ever, “you are absolutely right. I absolutely agree with you.”
Mr. Stoat, who had been very much on his dignity up to now, thawed visibly under the seducing cajolery of this unexpected confrrmation of his literary judgment.
“You are positively and unanswerably correct,” said Knuckles, now standing in the middle of the room with his long legs spread wide apart, his bony hands hanging to the lapels of his coat. “You have hit the nail right smack—dead—square on the top of its head.” As he uttered these words, he jerked his wry face from side to side to give them added emphasis. “There has never been a dirtier—filthier—more putrid—and more corrupt writer than George Moore. And as for that book of his, Ulysses,” McHarg shouted, “that is unquestionably the vilest----”
“—the rottenest----” shouted Mr. Stoat----
“—the most obscene----” shrilled McHarg----
“—the most vicious----” panted Mr. Stoat----
“—unadulterated----”
“—piece of tripe----” choked Mr. Stoat with rapturous agreement----
“—tha t has ever polluted the pages, defiled the name, and besmirched the record----”
“—of English literature!” gasped Mr. Stoat happily, and paused, panting for breath. “Yes,” he went on when he had recovered his power of speech, “and that other thing—that play of his—that rotten, vile, vicious, so-called tragedy in five acts—what was the name of that thing, anyway?”
“Oh,” cried McHarg with an air of sudden recognition “you mean The Importance of Being Earnest, don’t you?”
“No, no,” said Mr. Stoat impatiently. “Not that one. This one came later on.”
“Oh yes!” McHarg exclaimed, as if it had suddenly come to him. “You’re speaking of Mrs. Warren’s Profession, aren’t you?”
“That’s it, that’s it!” cried Mr. Stoat. “I took my wife to see it—I took my wife—my own wife----”
“His own wife!” McHarg repeated, as if astounded, “Well I’ll be God-damned,” he said. “What do you know about that!”
“And would you believe it, sir?” Mr. Stoat’s voice again sank to a whisper of loathing and revulsion, and his eyebrows worked ominously about his face. “I was so ashamed—I was so ashamed—that I could not look at her. We got up and left, sir, before the end of the first act—before anyone could see us. I went away with head bowed, as one who had been forced to take part in some nasty thing.”
“Well what do you know about that?” said McHarg sympathetically. “Wasn’t that just too damned bad? I call it perfectly damned awful!” he shouted suddenly, and turned away, his jaw muscles working convulsively as he muttered again: “Too much—too much.” He halted abruptly in front of Webber with his puckered face aflame and his lips twitching nervously, and began to prod him in the ribs, laughing his high, falsetto laugh. “He’s a publisher,” he squeaked. “He publishes books. K-k-k-k-k—Can you beat it, Georgie?” he squeaked almost inaudibly. Then, jerking a bony thumb in the direction of the astonished Stoat, he shrieked: “In the name of Christ Almighty—a publisher!“—and resumed his infuriated pacing of the room.