Life is not like thatThere is no such thing as pure drama, any more than in reality there are human characters who are all angel or all devil. A novel ought to be a slice of life, up in one chapter and down in another, its characters angels in the morning and devils in the evening. It’s the pictures painted by the words that count, not the words that paint the pictures. The story must be paramount, and in my opinion Clarence B. Bagshott can tell a story better than some of your lauded novelists.”

The room became quiet. It was as though Martin Lubers had praised theDecameron at a Methodist Conference. Then Blake spoke, slowly, giving exaggerated space between each word.

“My dear man, don’t be a complete ass,” he said. “We were discussing the novel and novelists, and you bring forward the atrocious efforts of a ‘whodunit’ writer.”

“All right, Blake, we’ll pass him by,” said the unabashed Lubers. “What of the novels of I. R. Watts? No one can say he does not turn out an excellent novel. He writes with astonishing vividness and achieves remarkable suspense.”

“Melodramatic trash,” averred Mervyn Blake, his eyes glinting.

“They sell, anyway,” Lubers argued. “And I’ve seen high praise of them inoversea journals. Watts gives an important something in addition to entertainment, and that addition is knowledge of history and of people.”

“But Lubers, Watts’s work lacks rhythm, and the writing is far from good.” Mervyn Blake’s lip lifted in a sneer, and he said, “It could never be claimed that I. R. Watts is a contributor to Australian literature-or any other. Our sole interest at the moment is Australian literature, and the influence we may exert upon its development.”

Nancy Chesterfield observed that Blake was becoming extremely angry. He emptied his glass and almost filled it with neat brandy, drank most of that and continued, apparently knowing he was the elected champion, his words falling like small hammers upon cement.