“I have only one idea at present,” said Ruth, smiling. “And that is cottages.”
“Quite a good one too,” said North. “Why hasn’t anyone thought of it?”
“Much too obvious, my dear,” exclaimed Lady Condor. “The people are shrieking to be housed, so we shall build them a library—yes.”
“And the Pithians will build themselves winter gardens and billiard-rooms and marble swimming-baths,” said Mrs. Riversley.
“Pithians!” exclaimed Lady Condor. “Who was it thanked someone else for a word! Thank you, dear Violet. Did I invent it myself the other day? How clever of me! Pithians—yes. Democracy will kill privilege as it did in France, but the Pithians arise on our ashes—or should it be Phœnix? I am getting dreadfully muddled—it comes from talking too much. Roger, why don’t you talk, instead of letting me monopolize Miss Seer and all the conversation?”
“My dear lady, the Pithian glory is but for a moment. We are all converging to the same heap of ashes with amazing velocity, and what will arise from those ashes you must ask a wiser man than I.”
“You think seriously of the outlook?” asked Ruth.
North helped himself to more bread-and-butter. “I don’t think,” he said. “It won’t bear thinking of—when you can do nothing.”
Then Lady Condor, for once, put a straight question without continuation.
“What do you think of things?” she asked, looking at Ruth.