He has got himself a bad literary character. I said to him laughingly
one day that he was like the man in the last century of whom it was said
that nothing but such a character could keep down such parts.
He laughed and said he would rather be like that than like a modern
writer or two whom he could name, whose parts were so poor that they
could be kept up by nothing but by such a character.
I remember soon after one of these books was published I happened to meet
Mrs Jupp to whom, by the way, Ernest made a small weekly allowance. It
was at Ernest's chambers, and for some reason we were left alone for a
few minutes. I said to her: "Mr Pontifex has written another book, Mrs
Jupp."
"Lor' now," said she, "has he really? Dear gentleman! Is it about
love?" And the old sinner threw up a wicked sheep's eye glance at me
from under her aged eyelids. I forget what there was in my reply which
provoked it--probably nothing--but she went rattling on at full speed to
the effect that Bell had given her a ticket for the opera, "So, of
course," she said, "I went. I didn't understand one word of it, for it
was all French, but I saw their legs.
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