But the son’s commentary was not to be diverted. “I asked that gentleman they called Major what he thought the effect of smokeless powder would be upon future warfare; and he looked perfectly paralysed, and said he didn’t know, he was sure. And that member of Parliament from Sheffingham, I asked him what the population of Sheffingham was, and he didn’t know. And that lady,—Lady Angela something,—-I asked her how she liked ‘Robert Elsmere,’ and she said she didn’t know him.”
“I’m afraid our friends thought you had rather a morbid appetite for information, Harold.”
“Well, I must say, I thought they were very superficial. All froth and glitter. Nothing solid or genuine about them. And that poem that little red-haired man recited! Now in American houses of that sort you’d hear serious conversation.”
“Your taste is austere. But you must be charitable, you must make allowances. Besides, some of us aren’t so superficial as you’d think. All that glitters isn’t pinchbeck. Major Northbrook, for example, is the best polo player in England. And Lady Angela Folbourne is very nearly the most disreputable woman. A reg’lar bad un, you know, and makes no bones of it, either. Perfectly, frankly, cynically wicked. Yet somehow or other she contrives to keep her place in society, and goes to Court. You see, she must have solid qualities, real abilities, somewhere?”
“How do you mean she’s wicked,—in what sense?”
“Oh, I say! You mustn’t expect me to dot my i’s and cross my t’s like that. A sort of société en commandite, you know.”
“You mean——?”
“Yes, quite so.”
“Why, but then, gracious heavens! she’s no better than a—than a professional——”
“Worse, worse, my clear. She’s an amateur.”