The people who can't--some of them don't so much as know it when they
see it--would shut their inkstands, and we shouldn't be deluged by
this flood of rubbish!"

I shall not attempt to repeat everything that passed between us, nor
to explain just how it was that, every moment I spent in his company,
Mark Ambient revealed to me more and more the consistency of his
creative spirit, the spirit in him that felt all life as plastic
material. I could but envy him the force of that passion, and it was
at any rate through the receipt of this impression that by the time
we returned I had gained the sense of intimacy with him that I have
noted. Before we got up for the homeward stretch he alluded to his
wife's having once--or perhaps more than once--asked him whether he
should like Dolcino to read "Beltraffio." He must have been unaware
at the moment of all that this conveyed to me--as well doubtless of
my extreme curiosity to hear what he had replied. He had said how
much he hoped Dolcino would read ALL his works--when he was twenty;
he should like him to know what his father had done. Before twenty
it would be useless; he wouldn't understand them.

"And meanwhile do you propose to hide them--to lock them up in a
drawer?" Mrs. Ambient had proceeded.

"Oh no--we must simply tell him they're not intended for small boys.
If you bring him up properly after that he won't touch them."

To this Mrs. Ambient had made answer that it might be very awkward
when he was about fifteen, say; and I asked her husband if it were
his opinion in general, then, that young people shouldn't read
novels.