To which the Honble. P. Brande, from over the edge of the Calcutta Journal, made answer—
“Pooh! Fin-de-siècle! Which siècle? The Romans, we all know, got their oysters from Cornwall, their caviare from the Caspian, we are only copying them in our so-called modern Capua.”
“Yes,” responded Dr. Loyd, with a laugh, “you are right; our luxurious tastes are centuries old; but we have advanced in other ways. Science, for instance. There have been splendid discoveries.”
“Most of them infringements of old Chinese and Egyptian patents.”
“Do you mean to say that we have not advanced?” demanded the other, deliberately laying down his paper.
“Yes,” admitted Mr. Brande; “we have telephones, sewing-machines, bicycles, telegrams; I doubt if they have made us happier than our forefathers. Women have advanced—that is certain. A century ago they were content to live in one place, and in a condition of torpid ignorance—they were satisfied that their métier was to sit at home, and cook and sew. Now, we have changed all that. I am reading an article by a woman,” tapping the page, “which is amazingly brilliant, lucid, and daring.”
“Oh, they are daring enough—fools rush in, you know.”
“Meaning that we are angels! Thank you, Loyd,” rejoined Mr. Brande, with his dry little laugh. “This article is quite in your own line. The subject is heredity, the burning question of the day and hour. How pitiless it is, this heredity,” he continued, removing his pince-nez, and sitting well back in his chair—“the only certain and unfailing legacy! Strange how a voice, a trick, a taste, the shape of a feature, or a finger, is handed down, as well as soul-corroding vices, bodily diseases and deformities. Even animals——”
“Yes, yes,” impatiently, “you are going to tell me about the puppy who points as soon as his eyes are open. I know everything that has been said. Of course we see a great deal of one side of it in our profession.”
“I wish that a taste for cooking had been handed down in my wife’s family,” cried Colonel Sladen, suddenly plunging headlong into the conversation. “I tell her that she will poison me yet, and just as effectually as if she were Lucrezia Borgia.”