“A schoolmaster!” repeated Madeline rather dismally. “Well! perhaps there may be just a touch of that in Rupert. When I’m going to see him I do feel rather nervous and a little as if I was going up for an exam.”
“Well, let’s say a holiday tutor,” conceded Bertha. “He is so educational!”
“At any rate, he bothers about what I ought and oughtn’t to know; he pays me some attention!”
“The only modern thing about him is his paying you so little,” said Bertha. “And, Madeline, we mustn’t forget that young men are very difficult to get hold of nowadays—for girls. Everyone complains of it. Formerly they wouldn’t dance, but they’d do everything else. Now, dancing’s the only thing they will do. People are always making bitter remarks to me about it. There’s not the slightest doubt that, except for dancing, young men just now, somehow or other, are scarce, wild and shy. And the funny thing is that they’ll two-step and one-step and double-Boston and Tango the whole evening, but that’s practically all. Oh, they’re most unsatisfactory! Lots of girls have told me so. And as to proposals! Why, they’re the rarest thing! Even when the modern young man is devoted you can’t be sure of serious intentions, except, of course, in the Royal Family, or at the Gaiety.”
“Well, I don’t care! I’m sure I don’t want all these silly dancing young men. They bore me to death. Give me culture! and all that sort of thing. Only—only Rupert! … Very often after he’s refused an invitation, like this of mother’s, he’ll write and ask me to have tea with him at Rumpelmeyer’s, or somewhere; and then he’ll talk and talk the whole time about … oh, any general instructive subject.”
“For instance?”
“Oh … architecture!”
“How inspiriting!”
“But does it all mean anything, Bertha?”