‘A good many interpretations may be put upon the word “uneducated,”’ observed Geoffrey.
Mrs. Thorne had long known herself to be a clever woman. She felt that she was a cleverer woman than usual at this moment. Yet not a suspicion had she of the situation’s actual point, not an inkling of the delicate friendship which bound Geoffrey to Dinah, and, at a somewhat lengthened distance, to Gaston.
‘Ah! When you have stayed longer in our Robinson Crusoe little island—— And it is charming, is it not?’
‘Quite too deliciously charming,’ answered Gaston, paraphrasing Linda’s own style of speech. ‘And cheaper than any decently liveable place this side Italy. For the daily consideration of two five-franc pieces one gets such sunshine as cannot be bought in Great Britain, three excellently cooked meals, and the advantage of living under the same roof with members of the English aristocracy. You hear the domestic gossip, Dinah. Does not a dowager countess, with a German lady’s maid, a second husband, two pug dogs, and a wig, reside in some upper apartment of Miller’s Hotel?’
‘But you will find that we are a little behindhand. Doctor Thorne and myself are sensible that there is always the insular note. Our friends are most kind, most hospitable, and of course there are the military people to fall back upon. Still, remembering other days, the intimacies of the soul, the freedom, the expansion of Indian society, Robbie and I feel we are in exile. There is a constant danger of fatty degeneration—I see Mr. Geoffrey Arbuthnot laughing at me—fatty degeneration of the mind.’
‘Want of appreciation is the saddest thing in human life,’ murmured Gaston, with a serious face. ‘I am taking my wife to Florence on the outside chance that we may be recognised by the Florentines as persons of distinction. In London we are nowhere.’
‘Yes. There is the insular note. Now, these Bartrands of Tintajeux. Delightful people! Noble French family who emigrated a hundred years ago to Guernsey—such of them, I mean, as were not guillotined—dropped the “de” from before their name, and settled here. Well, it is very wicked to awaken prejudice, but——’
‘Put aside all moral obligations,’ exclaimed Gaston Arbuthnot. ‘At a pass like this, dear Mrs. Thorne, it is a matter of life or death to some of us to have facts. Is Marjorie Bartrand pretty?’
With her long, gloved fingers Linda Thorne stroked down imaginary creases in her dress.
‘Marjorie ought to be pretty. I am a frank adorer of beauty, you must know. I hate to see a girl with possibilities make the least of herself. So I always contrive to give Marjorie a friendly lecture. If she would only arrange her hair differently, as I tell her, and dress like other people, and take a little reasonable care of her complexion, she might be distinctly nice-looking. All to no purpose. Marjorie is Marjorie still. Some people call her an original. I,’ said Linda playfully, ‘go farther. I call her an aboriginal.’