One night, after dinner, I was sitting in a circle of fashionable men and women—­none of them particularly intimate with me—­when Lady Londonderry opened the talk about books.  Hardly knowing her, I entered with an innocent zest into the conversation.  I was taken in by her mention of Symonds’ Studies in Italy, and thought she must be literary.  Launching out upon style, I said there was a good deal of rubbish written about it, but it was essential that people should write simply.  At this some one twitted me with our pencil-game of “Styles” and asked me if I thought I should know the author from hearing a casual passage read out aloud from one of their books.  I said that some writers would be easy to recognise—­such as Meredith, Carlyle, De Quincey or Browning—­but that when it came to others—­men like Scott or Froude, for instance—­I should not be so sure of myself.  At this there was an outcry:  Froude, having the finest style in the world, ought surely to be easily recognised!  I was quite ready to believe that some of the company had made a complete study of Froude’s style, but I had not.  I said that I could not be sure, because his writing was too smooth and perfect, and that, when I read him, I felt as if I was swallowing arrow-root.  This shocked them profoundly and I added that, unless I were to stumble across a horseman coming over a hill, or something equally fascinating, I should not even be sure of recognising Scott’s style.  This scandalised the company.  Lady Londonderry then asked me if I admired Symonds’ writing.  I told her I did not, although I liked some of his books.  She seemed to think that this was a piece of swagger on my part and, after disagreeing with a lofty shake of her head, said in a challenging manner: 

“I should be curious to know, Miss Tennant, what you have read by Symonds!”

Feeling I was being taken on, I replied rather chillily: 

“Oh, the usual sort of thing!”

Lady Londonderry, visibly irritated and with the confident air of one who has a little surprise in store for the company, said: 

“Have you by any chance looked at Essays, Suggestive and Speculative?”

Margot:  “Yes, I’ve read them all.”

Lady Londonderry:  “Really!  Do you not approve of them?”

Margot:  “Approve?  I don’t know what you mean.”  Lady Londonderry: 
“Do you not think the writing beautiful ... the style, I mean?”

Margot:  “I think they are all very bad, but then I don’t admire Symonds’ style.”

Lady Londonderry:  “I am afraid you have not read the book.”

This annoyed me; I saw the company were enchanted with their spokeswoman, but I thought it unnecessarily rude and more than foolish.

I looked at her calmly and said: 

“I am afraid, Lady Londonderry, you have not read the preface.  The book is dedicated to me.  Symonds was a friend of mine and I was staying at Davos at the time he was writing those essays.  He was rash enough to ask me to read one of them in manuscript and write whatever I thought upon the margin.  This I did, but he was offended by something I scribbled.  I was so surprised at his minding that I told him he was never to show me any of his unpublished work again, at which he forgave me and dedicated the book to me.”