“That's Lord Wrassleton,” she interrupted, “whose leg was broken—you remember?—at Spion Kop.”
“It's healed very well. I like the gold lace and the white glove resting, with quite a nice awkwardness, on the sword. When I was a little boy I wanted to wear clothes like that. And the stars! He's got the V. C. Most of these people here have at any rate shown pluck, you know—brought something off.”
“Not quite enough,” she suggested.
“I think that's it,” I said. “Not quite enough—not quite hard enough,” I added.
She laughed and looked at me. “You'd like to make us,” she said.
“What?”
“Hard.”
“I don't think you'll go on if you don't get hard.”
“We shan't be so pleasant if we do.”
“Well, there my puzzled wits come in again. I don't see why an aristocracy shouldn't be rather hard trained, and yet kindly. I'm not convinced that the resources of education are exhausted. I want to better this, because it already looks so good.”