“You ought to know the people who count,” said Aunt May.
“So I do,” said Wilfred. “In my world.”
“But that’s a very small world, my dear. . . . Huh? . . . I mean the great world.”
“Society?” said Wilfred. “I can hardly see myself performing with that troupe of trained seals.”
“And why not, pray?” asked Aunt May, bridling. “That is where you belong, on both sides of the house. Your name alone. . . . Huh? . . . the sole representative of your branch. . . .”
“And you have become quite nice-looking,” added Aunt Fanny.
“Thanks, ladies, thanks,” said Wilfred bowing.
“Nor are we entirely forgotten,” said Aunt May with dignity, “notwithstanding the parvenues who crowd everywhere. . . .”
“And the girls of that world are so much prettier and more charming,” put in Aunt Fanny.
Aunt May frowned at her again. But it was the seeming injudicious remark of Aunt Fanny’s which arrested Wilfred’s attention, and sent his mind cavorting down the very avenue that they wished. It was true! The girls of his world, writers and artists, good fellows as they were—well, that was just the trouble with them, they were such good fellows! When women descended into the arena to compete with men, they lost something of their allure. What cynic had he heard say that? He himself, would never have dared say it out loud amongst his friends; but was it not true? And sometimes, confound them! they beat a man at his own trade! How could you make love to a girl whose stories were in greater demand by the editors than your own? . . . Why not be honest with yourself, and confess that you were enough of a Turk at heart to be attracted by the idea of exquisite girls especially trained and groomed to please men. Very reprehensible, of course, but as long as there were such girls going, why not have one?