"It wants," allows Severus, who'd had both, "either a particular sense of irony or a staunch determination to understand the underlying principles of the politesse of the gentry. Personally I wouldn't touch Dickens with a ten-meter pole with an Impenetrable on it; one might catch something." He'd been told he'd definitely like the stuff, and had indignantly chucked A Christmas Carol at Evan Rosier's head halfway through the first chapter. This process had been repeated with John Wilkes and Great Expectations and Reggie Black and David Copperfield, although when Rus Lestrange had wagged Oliver Twist at him cheerfully, a strong sense of self-preservation had prevented him from a stronger reaction than a woebegone, long-suffering look.
"No," he agrees, smiling slightly at Q's concentration. "But one might add an hour or so of practice to her duties, if one cared for music and could afford six footmen anyway. Quite impossible, though; such an activity would have been worlds above her stations. They didn't have reading parties per se, but during casual gatherings such pursuits weren't uncommon, while those not holding the books smoked or embroidered or even played whist. Quite a good idea, too," he finishes approvingly.