“That scoundrel!” cried Mr. Mitchell. “That infamous buffoon who has not a grain of Liberalism left in his toadying mind!”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Mitchell, “we were talking about little Miss Morrison.”
“Well,” answered Mr. Mitchell, “we took our risk when we let the boy be an artist and we can be thankful it is no worse. Did I tell you, my love, that I am going off to the Cocos Islands to-morrow?”
“Indeed, my dear? Then you will not be able to come to my meeting.”
“No, I hear it is worse than the Congo.”
“Oh dear! oh dear! I don’t know what the world is coming to. The more civilized we get in one part of the world, the worse things are in another part. I declare such horrible things seem to me to make it quite unimportant whether we get the vote or not.”
“When you have a Tory Government calling itself Liberal,” said Mr. Mitchell very angrily, “it means that neither reform at home nor justice abroad can receive any attention. The country has gone to the dogs, and I thank God I spend most of my time out of it.”
“And poor Humphrey suffers. I’m sure I am a good mother to him, but I cannot be a father as well. I’m thankful to say he seems to be dropping that Jewish friend of his. He is a genius, of course, and quite remarkable, considering what he comes from; but with Jews it can never be the same, can it?”
“No, my love,” said Mr. Mitchell; “one would never dream of drinking out of the same glass, would one? Still, I must say, the Jews in England are much better than they are anywhere else, which seems to show that they can respond to decent treatment and thrive in the air of liberty.”
Both Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell had a platform manner of speaking, and as Morrison was not a subject that suited it, she was soon dropped; but in the end they came back to her, and agreed that she was a nice, shy little girl, and that she had no idea of marrying their only son, or anyone else, for that matter.