“The dungeons of Castle Ennui,” she repeated meditatively. “Yes, we are fellow-prisoners. I’m bored to extermination too. Still,” she added, “one is allowed out on parole, now and again. And sometimes one has really quite delightful little experiences.”
“It would ill become me, in the present circumstances, to dispute that,” he answered, bowing.
“But the castle waits to reclaim us afterwards, doesn’t it?” she mused. “That’s rather a happy image, Castle Ennui.”
“I’m extremely glad you approve of it. Castle Ennui is the Bastille of modern life. It is built of prunes and prisms; it has its outer court of Convention, and its inner court of Propriety; it is moated round by Respectability, and the shackles its inmates wear are forged of dull little duties and arbitrary little rules. You can only escape from it at the risk of breaking your social neck, or remaining a fugitive from social justice to the end of your days. Yes, it is a fairly decent little image.”
“A bit out of something you’re preparing for the press?” she hinted.
“Oh, how unkind of you!” he cried. “It was absolutely extemporaneous.”
“One can never tell, with vous autres gens-de-lettres“ she laughed.
“It would be friendlier to say nous autres gens desprit,’ he submitted.
“Aren’t we proving to what degree nous autres gens d’esprit sont bêtes,” she remarked, “by continuing to walk along this narrow pavement, when we can get into Kensington Gardens by merely crossing the street? Would it take you out of your way?”
“I have no way. I was sauntering for pleasure, if you can believe me. I wish I could hope that you have no way either. Then we could stop here, and crack little jokes together the livelong afternoon,” he said, as they entered the Gardens.