There were others who, while they allowed that she had plenty of common-sense (and indeed on occasion, in a cut-and-thrust argument, Barbara showed herself cunning of fence, and by no means deficient in repartee), would call her stuck-up and proud; and there were some, indeed, who repudiated the mere fact of her having lived in a different class of society to which they were not admitted, as in itself an insult and a shame. And even those who were disposed to soften all defects and to exaggerate all virtues--and they were by no means few in number--failed to what they call "get on" with the new Mrs. Churchill. They had no subjects of conversation in common; for even when literary subjects were introduced, they frightened Barbara by their iconoclastic tendencies; deliberately smashing up all those gods whom she had hitherto been accustomed to reverence, and erecting in their stead images inscribed with names unknown to her, or known but to be shuddered at as owned by Radicals or free-thinkers. They were men who outraged none of the social convénances of life; about whose manner or behaviour no direct complaint could be made; and often she thought herself somewhat exacting when she would repeat to herself, as she would--oh, how often!--that they were not gentlemen: not her style of gentlemen; that is to say, not the style of men to whom she had been accustomed. When, for instance, would a man have dared to address his conversation to any other man in preference to her, she being present? When could a man have permitted her to open a door, or place a chair for herself, in that set amongst which she had previously moved? Respect her! Her husband's friends would ignore her presence; saying in reply to a remark from her, "Look here, Churchill, you understand this;" or would prevent her interrupting them (a favourite practice of hers) by putting up their hands and saying, "Pardon-me while I state my case," continue their argument in the most dogged manner.
What most amazed Barbara was the calm manner in which all her sallies, however bitter or savage, were received by her husband's intimates, and laughed away or glossed over by Frank himself. At first her notion was to put down these persons by a calm haughty superiority or a studied reticence, which should in itself have the effect of showing her opinion of them: but neither demeanour had the smallest effect on those whom it was intended to reprove. The first time she ever perceived that any one was the least degree inclined to oppose her sway or dispute her authority, was one Saturday night, when Churchill's study was filled with several of his old friends, smoking and chatting. Barbara was there too, with her embroidery. She could stand tobacco-smoke perfectly; it did not give her a headache, or even worse than that, redden her eyelids and make her wink; and there was a small amount of "fastness" in it which pleased her. Moreover her presence prevented the gathering in the tabagie from quite sinking into a bachelor revel, the which Barbara, as a young married woman, held in the deepest abomination. The conversation was in full swing about books, authors, and publishers.
"Chester's going to bring out a volume of poems," said Mr. Bloss, an amiable young man with fluffy hair, who always had a good word for every one. "Says he should have published them before, but he's so many irons in the fire."
"Better put his poems where his irons are," laughed Mr. Dunster, a merry little old gentleman with light-blue eyes, who could take the skin off your back and plant daggers in your heart, smiling all the time in the pleasantest manner. "Chester's next door to an idiot; lives close by you, by the way, Bloss, doesn't he?"
All the men laughed; and even Barbara, after a look of amazement, could not help smiling.
"He's dreadfully frightened of the critics," said another man sitting by. "You must notice him in the Statesman yourself, Churchill, eh?"
"Or I'll speak to Harding. Poor Chester! he mustn't be allowed to come to grief. What are his verses like? has any one seen them?"
"I have," said Mr. Bloss. "They're really--they're--well--they're not so very bad, you know."
"What a burst of candour!" said Mr. Dunster. "Bloss, you are a young reviewer, and I must caution you against such excessively strong statements."
"Chester's most afraid of the Scourge," said the man who had spoken before; "he thinks it will flay him."