"How do you like that?" he asked.

"A little heavy, but very good," I said. "There's nothing in it
about the transcendent mystery of baking bread!"

He looked rather blank.

"Do you know who wrote it?" he asked.

I made a valiant effort to summon some of my governessly
recollections of literature.

"I give it up," I said feebly. "Is it Carlyle?"

"That is by Andrew McGill," he said. "One of his cosmic passages
which are now beginning to be reprinted in schoolbooks. The blighter
writes well."

I began to be uneasy lest I should be put through a literary
catechism, so I said nothing, but roused Peg into an amble. To tell
the truth I was more curious to hear the Professor talk about his
own book than about Andrew's. I had always carefully refrained from
reading Andrew's stuff, as I thought it rather dull.

"As for me," said the Professor, "I have no facility at the grand
style. I have always suffered from the feeling that it's better to
read a good book than to write a poor one; and I've done so much
mixed reading in my time that my mind is full of echoes and voices