A Parable

A few years ago I travelled from Montreal to Quebec in a Pullman car which, strange to say, never contained more than three passengers till we reached our destination. Opposite me sat a McGill girl—a junior I inferred from her conversation with two other girls who were seeing her off On the other side of the aisle sat a young man, one of those handsome, perfectly well-tailored youths, so attractive that you are willing to ascribe genius to them as well as a host of minor perfections. This demi-god was reading. The McGill girl looked across at hjm for some time, till their eyes met. ‘Reading?’ she half queried, after an interval of mute presentation leading to a simultaneous smile. ‘Yes,’ a very uncultivated voice answered, ‘what I want is a love story with a kid in it and lots of devilry in him.’ The book was handed across the aisle, and the girl began to read. The voice had been an anti-climax, and so evidently was the book, yet the girl read on, skimming and skipping. After a while my conscience smote me, and, bending over the love-and-kid-story, I whispered : ‘Have you ever read Vanity Fair?’ The girl looked up, flushed a little, and answered : ‘Dickens?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘Thack------’ ‘Oh! Thackeray, of

course! No, it was not on our list.’

What would I not have given to have Vanity Fair in my valise, open it at random, and watch the girl’s delight at Becky Sharp’s introduction to Sir Pitt’s town house and to his immortal charwoman!