I glanced across the table at a young Englishwoman. She was an “Honorable,” and possessed of a jointed surname. She was attired with great wealth and unbecomingness, and, to sum her up in a general way, she looked as if she did not write poetry.
She was an “Honorable” and possessed of a jointed surname.
“Yes,” she was saying, “cabs are cheap with us, but if you ride a lot in a day, they count up.” This is a stock remark with London women and I was not surprised to hear it again.
I glanced at my young man. He too had heard, and he quickly caught my mental attitude.
“Yes,” he said, “Englishwomen and girls are very fit; they’re good form, accomplished, and all that. But, though they know a lot, somehow, er,—their minds don’t jell.”
As this exactly expressed my own opinion, I was delighted at his clever phrasing of it.
But if the Englishman is charming as a dinner guest, he is even more so when he is host, as he often is at afternoon tea. And though I attended many teas presided over by London men, all others fade into insignificance beside the one given me at the Punch office.
I was the only guest, the host was the genial and miraculously clever Editor of Punch.
The tea was of the ordinary London deliciousness, the cakes and thin bread-and-butter were, as always, over there, the best in the world; but it was served to us on the historic Punch table, the great table where every Friday night, since the beginning of that publication, its editorial staff has dined.