"If Miss Gaunt inflicts herself upon us to-day (which the gods forbid), be sure you pitch into her about the cook she sent you," says Roger, gloomily, turning to Dulce. "That will be a topic of conversation at all events; you owe me a debt of gratitude for suggesting it."
"Well I shan't pay it," says Miss Blount, with decision.
"Well you ought. As a rule, the attempts at conversation down here are calculated to draw tears to the eyes of any intellectual person."
"But why?" asks Portia, indolently.
"It is utterly simple," says Roger, mildly. "There is nothing to talk about; you cannot well ask people what they had for dinner yesterday, without being rude, and there are no theatres, or concerts, or clubs to discuss, and nobody ever dies (the country is fatally healthy), and nobody ever gets married (because there is nobody to marry), and nothing is ever born, because they were all born years ago, or else have made up their minds never to be born at all. It is, in fact, about as unsatisfactory a neighborhood as any one could wish to inhabit."
"I dare say there are worse," says Dulce.
"You have strong faith," retorts Roger.
"Well, it would be a nice question to decide," says Sir Mark, amiably, with a view to restoring order.
"I don't think it is half a bad place," says Dicky Browne, genially, addressing nobody in particular, and talking for the mere sake of hearing his own voice.
"Dicky, I love you," says Dulce, triumphantly.