Cheriton pondered this philosophical statement with a sagacious smile. Caroline’s air, however, was so pontifical that it was not for his sex to dissent from it.
“Well, there is a great amount of stupidity in the world,” said he, “and it seems to be increasing. By the way, was George sober?”
“He was holding himself very erectly, and he was walking very slowly.”
“Then I am afraid he wasn’t. But it must be the most tedious thing out to spend one’s life in losing one’s money at cards and in criticising the Militia.”
“Yes,” said the old lady. “I share your opinion that it is time George began to pay attention to more permanent things.”
“The Militia is always with us.”
“I meant spiritual things, Cheriton,” said Caroline Crewkerne, whose day-of-judgment demeanor nearly choked his lordship.
“George Betterton,” said he, “has the spirituality of a wheelbarrow. It will give me great pleasure to be present when the subject is mentioned.”
“He is coming to my Wednesday,” said the old lady. “I shall speak to him then. That reminds me that Mary Ann Farquhar says this new Lancashire bishop eats his cheese in the old-fashioned manner and he is now in London. If I knew his address I would send him a card.”
“The Carlton Hotel,” said Cheriton, “is the headquarters of the Church in London.”