“I am not,” said little Mrs. Thwaites, with a curious grim twist in her voice. “I heard it tonight.”
“Perishing blighter!” said the Major; which was quite a long speech for the Major.
“I’m ashamed!” burst out Mrs. Thwaites in a vehement undertone. “Aren’t you ashamed, too, Rolf?”
“Rarther!” stated the Major. He grunted briefly but with passion.
“Fault of any non-conformist country,” pleaded young Mr. Braid, finely assuming mortification. “Raw, crude people—that sort of thing. Well-meaning but crude! Appalling ignorance touching on savories. No bitters in the home. No—”
“Don’t make fun,” said Mrs. Thwaites. “You know I don’t mean that.”
“Surely, surely you are not referring to our notable guest? Oh, Perfidious Albinos!” He registered profound grief.
“I am not.” Her words were like little screws turning. “Why should we be ashamed of him—Rolf and I? He’s not typical—the insufferable bounder! Our writing folk aren’t like that. He may have been well-bred—I doubt it. But now utterly spoiled.”
“Decayed,” amended her husband. “Blighting perisher!” he added, becoming, for him, positively oratorical.
“It’s you Americans I’m ashamed of,” continued this small, outspoken lady. “Do you think we’d let an American, no matter how talented he might be, come over to England to snub us in our own homes and patronize us and preach to us on our shortcomings and make unfair comparisons between his institutions and ours and find fault with our fashion of doing things? We’d jolly well soon put him in his place. But you Americans let him and others like him do it. You bow down and worship before them. You hang on their words. You flock to hear them. You pay them money, lots of it. You stuff them up with food, and they stuff you with insults. This one, now—he’s a sponge. He’s notorious for his sponging.”