LITERATURE

First semester
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(003953S - Why we read literature ?
1-pleasure (%75)
2-sometimes because finally, you realized there’s kind of similarity between you and the character of the movie or a
story and you can find your personality and your character in a movie or a story you think it might helps you (confront
experience )
3-to learn

Classic :-have been written during Greek and Romanian or something which is really important and great .

Why Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet has been considered as a classic and successful story!?
Because of the language of the story and his different style .

Literature Popularity doesn’t mean that the best or a great piece of literature maybe sometimes they just be like a trend, and
become the best sellers over night

What is literature?
It should have a permanent or universal interest. If it has universal interested, we can call it literature, and it should be
great and expression in an excellent way express the feelings in a great way.

Literature, in its broadest sense, Is everything that has ever been written. It includes comic books and pamphlets on just
potato bugs, as well as the novels of Mark Twain and the plays of William Shakespeare.
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information
In a narrower sense, there are various kinds of litera-tures." For example, we may read literature written in a certain
language, such as French literature. We speak of the literature of a period, such as literature of the 1800s.
it is
but
We also refer to the literature of a subject, as in the literature of gardening.
better
Literature has two main divisions: fiction and nonfic-tion. Fiction is writing that an author creates from the imagination.
to know
Authors may include facts about real persons or events, but they combine these facts with imaginary situations. Most it as
fiction is narrative writing, such as novels and short stories. Fiction also includes drama and poetry. Nonfiction is
factual writing about real-life situa-tions. The chief forms of nonfiction include the essay, history, biography, PoPules into
autobiography, and diary.

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Enjoying literature * ↑
Why we read literature!? We all read for a variety of reasons. These reasons change with our age, our inter-est, and
the literature we read. Our basic reason for reading is probably pleasure. We read literature mostly because we enjoy

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Reading for pleasure may take various forms. We may read just to pass the time. We often read for information and
③ knowledge. We find pleasure in learning about life in the Swiss Alps or on the Mississippi River. We find possible
solutions to our problems when we meet people in books whose problems are like our own. Through literature, we
sometimes understand situations we could not otherwise understand in real life.

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We also read simply for the enjoyment we get from the arrangement of words. We can find pleasure even in
nonsense syllables, just as children like the sound of "Ring Around the Rosie," though they may not know what the
words mean.
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Judging literature. Reading is such a personal activity that there can be no final rules for judging a piece of writing.
The taste and fashion of the times often enter into critical judgments. Some books become best sellers overnight. But
their popularity does not necessarily mean that they are great. Other works continue to be important for nonliterary
> because
this,
reasons. Many students today read Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom's Cabin (1851-
Work were not
1852) chiefly for its historical interest.
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in the style of
Yet, readers and critics do agree on certain writings that they consider classics, or literature of the highest rank. For noiting the
example, thousands of stories have been published about young lovers whose parents disapproved of their romance. stories.
Most of these stories were soon for gotten. But for about 400 years, Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet has been
considered a classic story of young love.
⑦

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shakespeare used words and phrases that are packed with meaning. But, perhaps more important, Shakespeare
*
gave Romeo and Juliet broad human values. These values were not limited to one place or to one time The
characters of the play seem to be real people who face real problems. They express feelings that people anywhere
might have at any time.

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People to face Problem.
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any time.
 t
For some reasons, the works of a novelist such as lane Austen mean a great deal to creative readers of any
generation. Austen's novels Pride and Prejudice (1813) and Emma (1816) express lasting truths and show the au-
and
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①
gaeoccioioeer:
⑤
↑ &
"Every reader is a critic. Even when we say we have no opinion of a book, we are making a judgment. But such
ajudgment is probably a poor one, based on little thought. Our ability to judge literature inteligenty de-theops
m s as our

reading broadens. Our critical skills, like our muscles, develop with use. develop

The elements of literature

Almost every literary work includes four elements: (1) characters; (2) plot; (3) theme, or statement; and (4) style.
A good writer tries to balance these elements to create a unified work of art. sm

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Characters. Writers may want to describe actions or ideas. But they must also describe the characters-the persons
or objects--affected by these actions andAideas.The characters make up the central interest of many dramas and
↑

①
novels, as well as biographies and autobiogra-phies. Even a poem is concerned with characters. The speaker, or the
①poet, is often the main character of a poem. Writers must know their characters thoroughly and have a clear picture of
each one's looks, speech, and thoughts.

Motivation means the reasons for a characters ac-tions. Writers must be sure that the motives of their characters are
clear and logical. In literature, as in life, character determines action.
↑ &
Setting is the place in which a character's story oc-curs. Literary characters, like the persons who read about them,
do not exist alone in space. They act and react with one another. They also respond to the world in which they live.
Setting is another way of showing people.

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Plot tells what happens to the characters in a story. A plots built around a series of events that take place within a
definite period. No rules exist for the order in which the events are presented.
↳ it means you can chang the order of the exposition -

Raising action -

climax......)

just read
-Si."A unified plot has a beginning, a middle, and an end.That is, an author leads us from somewhere (a character no a
problem), through somewhere whercharcharacter ing the problem), to somewhere (the character overcoming or andget
it
↑
being overcome by the problem).↑In literary Terms, we speak of a story having an exposition, a&rising action,③a climax,
↑ - - - M
and a denouement, or outcome. The exposition gives the background and situation of the story. the main

27 The rising action builds upon the given material. It lestes suspense, or a reader she give no mind out what happens Point.
next. The climax is the highest point of interest.The denouement ends the story.
34 a* ↑
Theme, or statement, is the basic idea expressed by a work of literature. It develops from the interplay of character
and plot.②A theme may warn the reader to lead a better life or a different kind of life. It may declare that life is
profitable or unprofitable, or that crime does or does not pay.

-,
Serious writers strive to make their work an honest expression of sentiment, or true emotion. They avoid
sentimentality, which means giving too much emphasis to emotion or pretending to feel an emotion. A writer of honest
emotion does not have to tell the reader what to think about a story. A good story directs the reader to the author's
conclusion.

my Style is the way a writer uses words to create litera-ture. It is one word following another, and one paragraph leading
to the next. We can seldom enjoy a story's characters or plot without enjoying the author's style.The way writers write
is part of what they have to say.From the first word to the last, a writer must solve problems of style by answering
such questions as: "What kinds of words shall I use?" "How shall I present details?"
"Should paragraphs be long or short?"

A writer's point of view, or the way a story is pre-sented, is another part of style. A writer may tell a story in the first
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person, using the pronoun I, as though the narrator were a major or minor character in it. Or, the writer may use the
third person method, in which the narrator stands apart from the characters and describes the action using such
pronouns as he and she. In the third person limited point of view, the narrator describes the events as a single
character might see and hear them. In the third person omniscient, or all-knowing, point of view, the narrator reports
on what several characters are thinking and feeling.
 286
SHORT STORY
Short Story. r
A short story is a brief work⑤of prose fiction, and most of the terms for analyzing the component elements, the types,
and the various narrative techniques of the novel are applicable to the short story as well. The short story differs from
- >

the anecdote-the unelaborated narration of a single incident--in that, like the novel, it organizes the action, thought,
and dialogue of its characters into the artful pattern of a plot. (See narrative and narra-tology.) And as in the novel,
the plot form may be comic, tragic, romantic, or satiric; the story is presented to us from one of many available points
of view; and it may be written in the mode of fantasy, realism, or naturalism.
960.0,5.4- In the tale, or "story of incident," the focus of interest is on the course and outcome of the events, as in Edgar Allan
Poe's The Gold Bug (1843) and in other tales of detection, in many of the stories of O. Henry (1862-1910), and in the
stock but sometimes well-contrived western and adventure stories in popular magazines. "Stories of character" focus
instead on the state of mind and motivation, or on the psychological and moral qualities, of the protago-nists. In some
of the stories of character by Anton Chekhov (1860-1904), the Russian master of the form, nothing more happens
303975i5 than an encounter and conversation between two people. Ernest Hemingway's classic "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place"
consists only of a curt conversation between two waiters about an old man who each day gets drunk and stays on in
the café until it closes, followed by a brief meditation on the part of one of the waiters. In some stories there is a
055.
9. balance of interest between external action and character. Hem-ingway's "The Short Happy Life of Francis
& Macomber" is as violent in its packed events as any sensational adventure-tale, but every particular of the action and
dialogue is contrived to test and reveal, with a surprising set of re-versals, the moral quality of all three protagonists.
The short story differs from the novel in the dimension that Aristotle called "magnitude," and this limitation of length
imposes differences both in the effects that the story can achieve and in the choice, elaboration, and management of
the elements to achieve those effects. Edgar Allan Poe, who is sometimes called the originator of the short story as
an established genre, was at any rate its first critical theorist. He defined what he called "the prose tale" as a narrative
which can be read at one sitting of from half an hour to two hours, and is limited to "a certain unique or single effect"
to which every de tail is subordinate (Review of Nathaniel Hawthorne's Twice Told Tales, 1842).
Poe's comment applies to many short stories, and points to the economy of management which the tightness of the
form always imposes in some degree. &
We can say that, by and large, the short story writer introduces a very limited number of persons, cannot afford the
space for the leisurely analysis and sustained development of character, and cannot undertake to develop as dense B ->

and detailed a social milieu as does the novelist. The author often begins the story close to, or even on the verge of,
the climax, minimizes both prior exposition and the details of the setting, keeps the complications down, and clears
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up the denouement quickly-sometimes in a few sentences. (See plot.)
The central incident is often selected to manifest as much as possible of the protagonist's life and character, and the
details are devised to carry maximum import for the development of the plot. This spareness in the narrative often
sives the artistry in a good short story higher visibility than the artistry in the more capacious and loosely structured
novel.
Many distinguished short stories depart from this paradigm in various ways. It must be remembered that the name
covers a great diversity of prose fiction, all the way from tres toat short story, which is a slightly elaborated anecdote
of perhaps five hundred words, to such long and complex forms as Herman Melville's Billy Budd (c. 1890), Henry
James' The Turn of the Screw
(1898), Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness (1902), and Thomas Mann's Mario and the Masician (1930). In such
works, the status of middle length between the tautness of the short story and the expansiveness of the novel is
sometimes indicated by the name novelette, or novella. This form has been especially exploited in Germany (where it
is called the Novelle) after it was introduced by. Goethe in 1795 and carried on by Heinrich von Kleist and many other
writers; the genre has also been the subject of special critical attention by German theorists (see the list of readings

Shootstory
below).
The short narrative, in both verse and prose, is one of the oldest and most widespread of literary forms; the Hebrew
Bible, for example, includes the stories of Jonah, Ruth, and Esther. Some of the narrative types which preceded the
modern short story, treated elsewhere in this Glossary, are the fable, the exemplum, the folktale, the fabliau, and the
parable. Early in its history, there developed the device of the frame-story: a preliminary narrative within which one or
more of the characters proceeds to tell a series of short narra-tives. This device was widespread in the oral and
written literature of the East and Middle East, as in the collection of stories called The Arabian Nights, and was used
by a number of other writers, including Boccaccio for his prose Decameron (1353) and by Chaucer for his versified
Canterbury Tales (C. 1387). In the latter instance, Chaucer developed the frame-story of the journey, dia-logue, and
interactions of the Canterbury pilgrims to such a degree that the frame itself approximated the form of an organized
plot. Within Chaucer's frame-plot, each story constitutes a complete and rounded narrative, yet functions also both as
a means of characterizing the teller and as a vehicle for the quarrels and topics of argument en route. In its more
recent forms, the frame-story may enclose either a single narrative (Henry James' The Turn of the Screw) or a
sequence of narratives (Joel Chandler Harris' stories as told by Uncle Remus, 1881 and later; see under beast fable).
The form of prose narrative which approximates the present concept of the short story was developed, beginning in
the early nineteenth century, in order to satisfy the need for short fiction by the many magazines (periodical
summary
summary
Sammas
 Broadest Sense Is everything that has ever been written Comic —> Novel

What is literature ? Narrow Sense Various types

It must be permanent and universal interest.

Narrative writing like (novels-drama-poetry-

Fiction Combine imagination with facts.
stories.)
Literature
(Essay-history-biography-autobiography-
Nonfiction factual writing about real-life situa-tions.
diary)

Our age

The reasons change with Our interest

The literature we read

Passing time

Why we read literature Variety of reason

Forms Information

Knowledge

We find solutions for our problems

pleasure
Swiss Alps - Mississippi River
Literature
Enjoyment of arrangement of words

Nonsense syllable Ring Around The Rosie

No rules to jusdge a piece of writing.

Tase and fashion go into critical judgment. (

summ a
because it loses its interest.)

Some book become best sellers overnight. (

their popularity doesn’t mean they are great.
Cause works continue to be important for
nonliterary reasons. )

Students read Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle

Tom's Cabin because its historical interest.

Most of the stories has been forgotten

because their style was not good.

Using word and phrases packed with

Judging literature meaning.

Gave the story broad human value.

Shakespeare Romeo and Juliet is a classic Ni limited to one place and one time
story and it remains for ages, because
Character seem to be real propel who face
problems

Express those feelings that human can have

at anytime and anywhere.

Pride and Prejudice

Lane Austen’s novels mean a great deal to
Austen’s novels Express lasting truths and author writing skill.
creative readers of any generation.
Emma

Every reader is a critic, even when we have

no opinions of a book, we are making a
judgment but a poor and little thought one.
Summay
summary
Summary
example of
exam
Critical
judgment
Themes in cupoftea
 A Cup of Tea

by Katherine Mansfield

Rosemary Fell was not exactly beautiful. No, you couldn't have called her
beautiful. Pretty? Well, if you took her to pieces... But why be so cruel as to take
anyone to pieces? She was young, brilliant, extremely modem, exquisitely well
dressed, amazingly well read in the newest of the new books, and her parties were
the most delicious mixture of the really important people and... artists - quaint
creatures, discoveries of hers, some of them too terrifying for words, but others
quite presentable and amusing.
Rosemary had been married two years. She had a duck of a boy. No, not
Peter - Michael. And her husband absolutely adored her. They were rich, really
rich, not just comfortably well off, which is odious and stuffy and sounds like one's
grandparents. But if Rosemary wanted to shop she would go to Paris as you and I
would go to Bond Street. If she wanted to buy flowers, the car pulled up at that
perfect shop in Regent Street, and Rosemary inside the shop just gazed in her
dazzled, rather exotic way, and said: "I want those and those and those. Give me
four bunches of those. And that jar of roses. Yes, I'll have all the roses in the jar.
No, no lilac. I hate lilac. It's got no shape." The attendant bowed and put the lilac
out of sight, as though this was only too true; lilac was dreadfully shapeless. "Give
me those stumpy little tulips. Those red and white ones." And she was followed to
the car by a thin shop-girl staggering under an immense white paper armful that
looked like a baby in long clothes....
One winter afternoon she had been buying something in a little antique shop
in Curzon Street. It was a shop she liked. For one thing, one usually had it to
oneself. And then the man who kept it was ridiculously fond of serving her. He
beamed whenever she came in. He clasped his hands; he was so gratified he could
scarcely speak. Flattery, of course. All the same, there was something...
"You see, madam," he would explain in his low respectful tones, "I love my
things. I would rather not part with them than sell them to someone who does not
appreciate them, who has not that fine feeling which is so rare..." And, breathing
deeply, he unrolled a tiny square of blue velvet and pressed it on the glass counter
with his pale finger-tips.
To-day it was a little box. He had been keeping it for her. He had shown it to
nobody as yet. An exquisite little enamel box with a glaze so fine it looked as
1
though it had been baked in cream. On the lid a minute creature stood under a
flowery tree, and a more minute creature still had her arms round his neck. Her hat,
really no bigger than a geranium petal, hung from a branch; it had green ribbons.
And there was a pink cloud like a watchful cherub floating above their heads.
Rosemary took her hands out of her long gloves. She always took off her gloves to
examine such things. Yes, she liked it very much. She loved it; it was a great duck.
She must have it. And, turning the creamy box, opening and shutting it, she
couldn't help noticing how charming her hands were against the blue velvet. The
shopman, in some dim cavern of his mind, may have dared to think so too. For he
took a pencil, leant over the counter, and his pale, bloodless fingers crept timidly
towards those rosy, flashing ones, as he murmured gently: "If I may venture to
point out to madam, the flowers on the little lady's bodice."
"Charming!" Rosemary admired the flowers. But what was the price? For a
moment the shopman did not seem to hear. Then a murmur reached her. "Twenty-
eight guineas, madam."
"Twenty-eight guineas." Rosemary gave no sign. She laid the little box
down; she buttoned her gloves again. Twenty-eight guineas. Even if one is rich...
She looked vague. She stared at a plump tea-kettle like a plump hen above the
shopman's head, and her voice was dreamy as she answered: "Well, keep it for me
- will you? I'll..."
But the shopman had already bowed as though keeping it for her was all any
human being could ask. He would be willing, of course, to keep it for her for ever.
The discreet door shut with a click. She was outside on the step, gazing at
the winter afternoon. Rain was falling, and with the rain it seemed the dark came
too, spinning down like ashes. There was a cold bitter taste in the air, and the new-
lighted lamps looked sad. Sad were the lights in the houses opposite. Dimly they
burned as if regretting something. And people hurried by, hidden under their
hateful umbrellas. Rosemary felt a strange pang. She pressed her muff against her
breast; she wished she had the little box, too, to cling to. Of course the car was
there. She'd only to cross the pavement. But still she waited. There are moments,
horrible moments in life, when one emerges from shelter and looks out, and it's
awful. One oughtn't to give way to them. One ought to go home and have an extra-
special tea. But at the very instant of thinking that, a young girl, thin, dark,
shadowy - where had she come from? - was standing at Rosemary's elbow and a
voice like a sigh, almost like a sob, breathed: "Madam, may I speak to you a
moment?"

2
 "Speak to me?" Rosemary turned. She saw a little battered creature with
enormous eyes, someone quite young, no older than herself, who clutched at her
coat-collar with reddened hands, and shivered as though she had just come out of
the water.
"M-madam, stammered the voice. Would you let me have the price of a cup
of tea?"
"A cup of tea?" There was something simple, sincere in that voice; it wasn't
in the least the voice of a beggar. "Then have you no money at all?" asked
Rosemary.
"None, madam," came the answer.
"How extraordinary!" Rosemary peered through the dusk and the girl gazed
back at her. How more than extraordinary! And suddenly it seemed to Rosemary
such an adventure. It was like something out of a novel by Dostoevsky, this
meeting in the dusk. Supposing she took the girl home? Supposing she did do one
of those things she was always reading about or seeing on the stage, what would
happen? It would be thrilling. And she heard herself saying afterwards to the
amazement of her friends: "I simply took her home with me," as she stepped
forward and said to that dim person beside her: "Come home to tea with me."
The girl drew back startled. She even stopped shivering for a moment.
Rosemary put out a hand and touched her arm. "I mean it," she said, smiling. And
she felt how simple and kind her smile was. "Why won't you? Do. Come home
with me now in my car and have tea."
"You - you don't mean it, madam," said the girl, and there was pain in her
voice.
"But I do," cried Rosemary. "I want you to. To please me. Come along."
The girl put her fingers to her lips and her eyes devoured Rosemary. "You're
- you're not taking me to the police station?" she stammered.
"The police station!" Rosemary laughed out. "Why should I be so cruel? No,
I only want to make you warm and to hear - anything you care to tell me."
Hungry people are easily led. The footman held the door of the car open, and
a moment later they were skimming through the dusk.
"There!" said Rosemary. She had a feeling of triumph as she slipped her
hand through the velvet strap. She could have said, "Now I've got you," as she
gazed at the little captive she had netted. But of course she meant it kindly. Oh,
more than kindly. She was going to prove to this girl that - wonderful things did
happen in life, that - fairy godmothers were real, that - rich people had hearts, and
that women were sisters. She turned impulsively, saying'. "Don't be frightened.
3
After all, why shouldn't you come back with me? We're both women. If I'm the
more fortunate, you ought to expect..."
But happily at that moment, for she didn't know how the sentence was going
to end, the car stopped. The bell was rung, the door opened, and with a charming,
protecting, almost embracing movement, Rosemary drew the other into the hall.
Warmth, softness, light, a sweet scent, all those things so familiar to her she never
even thought about them, she watched that other receive. It was fascinating. She
was like the rich little girl in her nursery with all the cupboards to open, all the
boxes to unpack.
"Come, come upstairs," said Rosemary, longing to begin to be generous.
"Come up to my room." And, besides, she wanted to spare this poor little thing
from being stared at by the servants; she decided as they mounted the stairs she
would not even ring to Jeanne, but take off her things by herself. The great things
were to be natural!
And "There!" cried Rosemary again, as they reached her beautiful big
bedroom with the curtains drawn, the fire leaping on her wonderful lacquer
furniture, her gold cushions and the primrose and blue rugs.
The girl stood just inside the door; she seemed dazed. But Rosemary didn't
mind that.
"Come and sit down," she cried, dragging her big chair up to the fire, "m this
comfy chair. Come and get warm. You look so dreadfully cold."
"I daren't, madam," said the girl, and she edged backwards.
"Oh, please," - Rosemary ran forward - "you mustn't be frightened, you
mustn't, really. Sit down, when I've taken off my things we shall go into the next
room and have tea and be cozy. Why are you afraid?" And gently she half pushed
the thin figure into its deep cradle.
But there was no answer. The girl stayed just as she had been put, with her
hands by her sides and her mouth slightly open. To be quite sincere, she looked
rather stupid. But Rosemary wouldn't acknowledge it. She leant over her, saying:
"Won't you take off your hat? Your pretty hair is all wet. And one is so
much more comfortable without a hat, isn't one?"
There was a whisper that sounded like "Very good, madam," and the crushed
hat was taken off.
"And let me help you off with your coat, too," said Rosemary.
The girl stood up. But she held on to the chair with one hand and let
Rosemary pull. It was quite an effort. The other scarcely helped her at all. She
seemed to stagger like a child, and the thought came and went through Rosemary's
4
mind, that if people wanted helping they must respond a little, just a little,
otherwise it became very difficult indeed. And what was she to do with the coat
now? She left it on the floor, and the hat too. She was just going to take a cigarette
off the mantelpiece when the girl said quickly, but so lightly and strangely: "I'm
very sorry, madam, but I'm going to faint. I shall go off, madam, if I don't have
something."
"Good heavens, how thoughtless I am!" Rosemary rushed to the bell.
"Tea! Tea at once! And some brandy immediately!"
The maid was gone again, but the girl almost cried out: "No, I don't want no
brandy. I never drink brandy. It's a cup of tea I want, madam." And she burst into
tears.
It was a terrible and fascinating moment. Rosemary knelt beside her chair.
"Don't cry, poor little thing," she said. "Don't cry." And she gave the other
her lace handkerchief. She really was touched beyond words. She put her arm
round those thin, bird-like shoulders.
Now at last the other forgot to be shy, forgot everything except that they
were both women, and gasped out: "I can't go on no longer like this. I can't bear it.
I can't bear it. I shall do away with myself. I can't bear no more."
"You shan't have to. I'll look after you. Don't cry any more. Don't you see
what a good thing it was that you met me? We'll have tea and you'll tell me
everything. And I shall arrange something. I promise. Do stop crying. It's so
exhausting. Please!"
The other did stop just in time for Rosemary to get up before the tea came.
She had the table placed between them. She plied the poor little creature with
everything, all the sandwiches, all the bread and butter, and every time her cup was
empty she filled it with tea, cream and sugar. People always said sugar was so
nourishing. As for herself she didn't eat; she smoked and looked away tactfully so
that the other should not be shy.
And really the effect of that slight meal was marvelous. When the tea-table
was carried away a new being, a light, frail creature with tangled hair, dark lips,
deep, lighted eyes, lay back in the big chair in a kind of sweet languor, looking at
the blaze. Rosemary lit a fresh cigarette; it was time to begin.
"And when did you have your last meal?" she asked softly.
But at that moment the door-handle turned.
"Rosemary, may I come in?" It was Philip.
"Of course."
He came in. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he said, and stopped and stared.
5
 "It's quite all right," said Rosemary, smiling. "This is my friend, Miss _"
"Smith, madam," said the languid figure, who was strangely still and
unafraid.
"Smith," said Rosemary. "We are going to have a little talk."
"Oh yes," said Philip. "Quite," and his eye caught sight of the coat and hat
on the floor. He came over to the fire and turned his back to it. "It's a beastly
afternoon," he said curiously, still looking at that listless figure, looking at its
hands and boots, and then at Rosemary again.
"Yes, isn't it?" said Rosemary enthusiastically. "Vile."
Philip smiled his charming smile. "As a matter of fact," said he, "I wanted
you to come into the library for a moment. Would you? Will Miss Smith excuse
us?"
The big eyes were raised to him, but Rosemary answered for her: "Of course
she will." And they went out of the room together.
"I say," said Philip, when they were alone. "Explain. Who is she? What does
it all mean?"
Rosemary, laughing, leaned against the door and said: "I picked her up in
Curzon Street. Really. She's a real pick-up. She asked me for the price of a cup of
tea, and I brought her home with me. "
"But what on earth are you going to do with her?" cried Philip.
"Be nice to her," said Rosemary quickly. "Be frightfully nice to her. Look
after her. I don't know how. We haven't talked yet. But show her - treat her - make
her feel -"
"My darling girl," said Philip, "you're quite mad, you know. It simply can't
be done."
"I knew you'd say that," retorted Rosemary. Why not? I want to. Isn't that a
reason? And besides, one's always reading about these things. I decided -"
"But," said Philip slowly, and he cut the end of a cigar, "she's so
astonishingly pretty."
"Pretty?" Rosemary was so surprised that she blushed. "Do you think so? I -
I hadn't thought about it."
"Good Lord!" Philip struck a match. "She's absolutely lovely. Look again,
my child. I was bowled over when I came into your room just now. However... I
think you're making a ghastly mistake. Sorry, darling, if I'm crude and all that. But
let me know if Miss Smith is going to dine with us in time for me to look up The
Milliner's Gazette."

6
 "You absurd creature!" said Rosemary, and she went out of the library, but
not back to her bedroom. She went to her writing-room and sat down at her desk.
Pretty! Absolutely lovely! Bowled over! Her heart beat like a heavy bell. Pretty!
Lovely! She drew her check-book towards her. But no, checks would be no use, of
course. She opened a drawer and took out five pound notes, looked at them, put
two back, and holding the three squeezed in her hand, she went back to her
bedroom.
Half an hour later Philip was still in the library, when Rosemary came in.
"I only wanted to tell you," said she, and she leaned against the door again
and looked at him with her dazzled exotic gaze, "Miss Smith won't dine with us to-
night."
Philip put down the paper. "Oh, what's happened? Previous engagement?"
Rosemary came over and sat down on his knee. "She insisted on going," said
she, "so I gave the poor little thing a present of money. I couldn't keep her against
her will, could I?" she added softly.
Rosemary had just done her hair, darkened her eyes a little and put on her
pearls. She put up her hands and touched Philip's cheeks.
"Do you like me?" said she, and her tone, sweet, husky, troubled him.
"I like you awfully," he said, and he held her tighter. "Kiss me."
There was a pause.
Then Rosemary said dreamily: "I saw a fascinating little box to-day. It cost
twenty-eight guineas. May I have it?"
Philip jumped her on his knee. "You may, little wasteful one," said he.
But that was not really what Rosemary wanted to say.
"Philip," she whispered, and she pressed his head against her bosom, "am I
pretty?"