I seem to be woefully ignorant, Gareth replied. He turned to Mrs. Sumner. Who's . . . ?
Mary was listening to Cazique across the table: Proust ressemble à un cours d'eau, un vaste fleuve qui, comme le Nil, jaillit dans plusieurs endroits, s'affermit dans sa course, embrasse des villes et des iles, et finalement se joint à un fleuve énorme et se précipite dans la mer!
Well, I'll get it tomorrow. . . . She was listening to Gareth again. . . . Do you know, he went on wistfully, I think I'd like to write a Negro novel.
Mary laughed. Everybody seems to be doing that. Have we become so interesting?
Some day, Dr. Lancaster was saying, perhaps a Negro will write a novel about white people.
I'd like to see that done, Gareth said.
It has been done, said Mary.
I suppose you mean Dumas, suggested Dr. Lancaster.
Or Pushkin, Gareth offered.
No, I mean by an American Negro, Charles W. Chesnutt. He's written several novels from a white point of view.
Never heard of him, said Gareth in amazement. Suppose you tell me some of the titles. He produced a pencil and a slip of paper.
Presently, Mrs. Sumner rose. We'll have coffee in the library, she announced.
