“Something very much of the same kind occurred,” she will remember, “one winter when we were staying in Brighton. Only on that occasion the man’s name, I think, was Robinson.”
We do not live new stories—nor write them either. The man’s name in the old story was Robinson, we alter it to Jones. It happened, in the old forgotten tale, at Brighton, in the winter time; we change it to Eastbourne, in the spring. It is new and original—to those who have not heard “something very like it” once before.
“Much smart talk is indulged in,” so the sub-editor has explained. There is absolutely no need to ask for more than that. There is a Duchess who says improper things. Once she used to shock me. But I know her now. She is really a nice woman; she doesn’t mean them. And when the heroine is in trouble, towards the middle of the book, she is just as amusing on the side of virtue. Then there is a younger lady whose speciality is proverbs. Apparently whenever she hears a proverb she writes it down and studies it with the idea of seeing into how many different forms it can be twisted. It looks clever; as a matter of fact, it is extremely easy.
Be virtuous and you will be happy.
She jots down all the possible variations: Be virtuous and you will be unhappy.
“Too simple that one,” she tells herself. Be virtuous and your friends will be happy if you are not.
“Better, but not wicked enough. Let us think again. Be happy and people will jump to the conclusion that you are virtuous.
“That’s good, I’ll try that one at to-morrow’s party.”
She is a painstaking lady. One feels that, better advised, she might have been of use in the world.
There is likewise a disgraceful old Peer who tells naughty stories, but who is good at heart; and one person so very rude that the wonder is who invited him.