I review novels, but I do not write them.
The other day I watched a game of tennis. I had placed the
lounge-chair in a safe and shady position. I had got a paper-knife and
the third volume with me. The cat had followed me out of the library,
and sat down in a convenient position so that I could scratch it
gently behind the ear if I wanted to. I was smoking a pipe that had
just reached the right stage of maturity, and, in some indefinable
way, made life seem richer and better. Everything was well arranged
for the watching of tennis.
There were two players--BILL, a young son of the house, whom I knew
intimately, and TOMMY, a boy of the same age, who had just come up
from the Rectory. I had not seen TOMMY before. He was a nice-looking
little boy, and wore a black necktie in the collar of his silk
tennis-shirt. BILL is not good-looking; he is red and freckled, and
grins vastly. He was wearing rather unclean flannels, and did not look
quite so refined and delicate as TOMMY. I compared the two boys, and
thought that I preferred BILL. In the first game of the set, BILL, who
plays wonderfully well, won easily; after that, my attention got fixed
on that third volume. I turned down a corner of the page whenever I
came across anything that was at all conventional.
Pages:
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26