“And do you tell me she had that heavy load on her heart all the time she was talking and laughing there?”
L'Estrange nodded.
“It's only women bear up that way. Take my word for it, if it had been one of us he 'd not have come down to dinner, he 'd not have had pluck to show himself. There's where they beat us, sir,—that's real courage.”
“You are not taking your wine,” said L'Estrange, seeing him pass the bottle.
“No; I want my head clear this evening, I want to be cool and collected. I'll not drink any more. Tell me about yourself a little; how do you get on here? do you like the place? do you like the people?”
“The place is charming; we like it better every day we live in it.”
“And the people—the English, I mean; what of them?”
“They mean kindly enough, indeed they are often very kind; but they do not live in much harmony, and they only agree in one thing—”
“I know what that is. They all join to worry the parson—of course they do. Did you ever live in a lodging-house, L'Estrange? If you did, you must have seen how the whole population coalesced to torment the maid-of-all-work. She belonged to them all, collectively and individually. And so it is with you. You are the maid-of-all-work. You have to make Brown's bed, and black Robinson's boots—spiritually, I mean—and none recognizes the claim of his neighbor, each believes you belong to himself. That's the voluntary system, as they call it; and a quicker way to drive a man mad was never invented.”
“Perhaps you take an extreme view of it—” began L'Estrange.