"The two-shilling ones," I repeated, with emphasis on the price. Hang
it, how slow he was.
Still he said nothing.
"So much better than the old yellowbacks at that figure," I said.
He was, if anything, more silent.
Clearly I must plunge. "Who is your favourite writer?" I demanded,
point-blank.
"I haven't got such a thing," he said.
Here's a strange thing, I thought. I suppose he's one of those
mechanical readers who go through a book as a kind of dutiful pastime
and never even notice the author's name.
"But you read a lot?" I suggested.
"Me? Good gracious, no," he said. "I don't read a book from one year's
end to the other. Papers--oh, yes; but not books."