I think things like that run in families. We all knit well. I
had an uncle who knitted his own socks to the day of his death--and
he did it better than any of his daughters, dear old gentleman. Now I
wonder that you, Miss Allan, who use your eyes so much, don't take
up knitting in the evenings. You'd find it such a relief, I should
say--such a rest to the eyes--and the bazaars are so glad of things."
Her voice dropped into the smooth half-conscious tone of the expert
knitter; the words came gently one after another. "As much as I do I
can always dispose of, which is a comfort, for then I feel that I am not
wasting my time--"
Miss Allan, being thus addressed, shut her novel and observed the others
placidly for a time. At last she said, "It is surely not natural to
leave your wife because she happens to be in love with you. But that--as
far as I can make out--is what the gentleman in my story does."
"Tut, tut, that doesn't sound good--no, that doesn't sound at all
natural," murmured the knitters in their absorbed voices.
"Still, it's the kind of book people call very clever," Miss Allan
added.
"_Maternity_--by Michael Jessop--I presume," Mr. Elliot put in, for he
could never resist the temptation of talking while he played chess.
"D'you know," said Mrs. Elliot, after a moment, "I don't think people
_do_ write good novels now--not as good as they used to, anyhow.
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