“That's good!” said Weston Massinghay, with all his teeth gleaming; “I shall use that against you in the House!”
“I shall denounce you for abusing private confidences if you do,” said Tarvrille.
“Remington wants us to give up launching Dreadnoughts and launch babies instead,” Burshort urged. “For the price of one Dreadnought—”
The little shrivelled don who had been omniscient about guns joined in the baiting, and displayed himself a venomous creature. Something in his eyes told me he knew Isabel and hated me for it. “Love and fine thinking,” he began, a little thickly, and knocking over a wine-glass with a too easy gesture. “Love and fine thinking. Two things don't go together. No philosophy worth a damn ever came out of excesses of love. Salt Lake City—Piggott—Ag—Agapemone again—no works to matter.”
Everybody laughed.
“Got to rec'nise these facts,” said my assailant. “Love and fine think'n pretty phrase—attractive. Suitable for p'litical dec'rations. Postcard, Christmas, gilt lets, in a wreath of white flow's. Not oth'wise valu'ble.”
I made some remark, I forget what, but he overbore me.
Real things we want are Hate—Hate and COARSE think'n. I b'long to the school of Mrs. F's Aunt—”
“What?” said some one, intent.
“In 'Little Dorrit,'” explained Tarvrille; “go on!”