ABSTRACT
William Lyon Phelps [Hardy] was a smallish, slender, wiry man, with a gray mustache and a gray face. And although his expression was grave, and though I never heard him laugh, he was as far from being severe as he was from being petulant. During our conversation – we sat together on a bench – he made no remark that savored either of cynicism or of bitterness. But he was, as might be expected, undeniably serious. [...]
I asked him what he thought a novel should be. He replied emphatically that it should always be a story; the foundation must be a fable. He did not admire the modern custom of writing treatises, diaries, propaganda, what not, and calling the thing a novel. [...]
He was literally covered with cats. Several large cats were purring over him, and at different places on the lawn and in the shrubbery I saw saucers of milk. ‘Are all these your own cats?’ ‘Oh, no, only a few of them. But my cats invite the cats of the neighborhood in to tea. They know that saucers of milk will be provided and many come who are not invited. They just hear about it’ (p. 9).
