“Oh, the English Sunday!” said Herbert. “How can you have art and the English Sunday together? You talk of the art of the people, Curtis. The real national art of England is oratorio, and Elijah may not appear on the stage except in evening dress.”
“Don’t talk to me of the middle classes,” groaned Cornpepper. “They will never be saved till Boccaccio is read aloud in every parlor on Sunday afternoons.”
“Don’t be an ass, Teddy,” said Butler. “You’ll be moral some day.”
“I can get my stockings darned without marrying,” retorted Cornpepper, with an irritating laugh, and Butler reddened angrily. He had married a slipshod, artistic creature who neglected his shirt-buttons, and the thrust rankled.
“My wife’s waiting at the Monico,” complained Jimmy, in a droll sing-song.
“Oh, bother! Carrie’s just making the coffee,” replied the host.
“I won’t have coffee,” said Jimmy; “I never mix drinks.”
The coffee came round, and with it sandwiches, and broke up the talk into duets and trios. Cornpepper planned a house-boat party for the summer to pick up nautical models and paint the river. Matt’s envious consciousness that he was too poor and too obscure to share in these delightful artistic experiences gave him a new and more disagreeable sense of aloofness. Then the proceedings became musical and remained so till the next morning, their refusal to depart before the advent of which the guests melodiously declared.
As the party was breaking up, Cornpepper cried: “Oh, I was nearly forgetting.”
“What?” said Jimmy. “To offer a prayer?”