I had heard much about the art of loafing as practiced by Europeans, and I had not been attracted by what I had heard. It was inconceivable to me that intelligent grown men could pass their time at things about equal to marbles and tops. But I suppose I am abnormal, as they allege. Many men seem to look on mental effort of any kind as toilsome, and seize the first opportunity to return to the mindless frolickings of the beasts of the field. To me mental effort is a keen pleasure. And I must add I can’t help thinking it is to everybody who has real brains.
The conversation would have died in distressing agony had it not been for the indomitable pluck of my wife. She struggled desperately—perhaps may even have deceived herself into thinking that she was glad to see me and that the carriage was the scene of a happy reunion. But I, who had a thorough training in quickly sizing up situations, saw the truth—that I was a rank outsider, to both wife and daughter; that they were strangers to me. I began to debate what was the shortest time I could decently stop in London.
“We are to be presented at Court next week,” said Edna.
Margot’s eyes were again sparkling. It was the sort of look the novelists put on the sweet young girl’s face when she sees her lover coming.
“Yes—next week—next Thursday,” said Edna. “And so another of the little duchess’s dreams is coming true.”
“Is it exciting?” said I to Margot. Somehow reference to the “little duchess” irritated me.
“Rather!” exclaimed Margot, fairly glowing with ecstasy. “You put on the most wonderful dress, and you drive in a long, long line of wonderful carriages, with all the women in wonderful dresses. And you go into the palace through lines and lines of gorgeous liveries and uniforms—and you wait in a huge grand room for an hour or so, frightened to death—and then you walk into the next room and make the courtesy you have been practicing for weeks—and you pass on.”
“Good!” cried I. “What then?”
“Why you go home, half dead from the nervous shock. Oh, it’s wonderful!”
It seemed to me—for I was becoming somewhat critical, as is the habit in moods of irritation—it seemed to me that Margot’s elaborate and costly education might have included the acquiring of a more extensive vocabulary. That word wonderful was beginning to get on my nerves. Still, this was hyper-criticism. A lovely woman does not need a vocabulary, or anything else but a lovely dress and plenty of money to provide background. “Yes—it must be—wonderful,” said I.