MRS. CULVER ( utterly puzzled for a moment; then, when she understands, rushing to Hildegarde and embracing her ). Oh! My wonderful girl!
JOHN ( feebly and still humiliated ). Stay me with flagons!
HILDEGARDE ( to her mother ). How nice you are about it, mamma!
MRS. CULVER. But I'm very proud, my pet. Of course I think you might have let me into the secret—
CULVER. None of us were let into the secret, Hermione—I mean until comparatively recent times. It was a matter between Hilda's conscience and her editor.
MRS. CULVER. Oh! I'm not complaining. I'm so relieved she didn't write those dreadful cookery articles.
HILDEGARDE. But do you mean to say you aren't frightfully shocked by my advanced politics, mamma?
MRS. CULVER. My child, how naïve you are, after all! A woman is never shocked, though of course at times it may suit her to pretend to be. Only men are capable of being shocked. As for your advanced politics, as you call them, can't you see that it doesn't matter what you write so long as you are admired by the best people. It isn't views that are disreputable, it's the persons that hold them.
CULVER. I hope that's why you so gracefully gave way over the baronetcy, my dear.
MRS. CULVER ( continuing to Hildegarde). There's just one thing I should venture to suggest, and that is, that you cease at once to be a typist and employ one yourself instead. It's most essential