The foot was swinging more rapidly now. It was such a small foot. My own looked so enormous and clumsy and uncouth by comparison.
“A—oh, thousands,” said I, at random. If the number were large enough to satisfy him he might cease to worry me.
“A beastly game,” declared Judson, with conviction. “How can a civilized country countenance such brutality! Do you countenance it, Mr. Knowles?”
“Yes—er—that is, no.”
“You agree, then, that it is brutal?”
“Certainly, certainly.” Would the fellow never stop?
“Then—”
“Nonsense!” It was Frances who spoke and her tone was emphatic and impatient. We all looked at her; her cheeks were flushed and she appeared highly indignant. “Nonsense!” she said again. “He doesn't agree to any such thing. I've heard him say that American football was not as brutal as our fox-hunting and that fewer people were killed or injured. We play polo and we ride in steeplechases and the papers are full of accidents. I don't believe Americans are more brutal or less civilized in their sports than we are, not in the least.”
Considering that she had at the beginning of the conversation apparently agreed with all that had been said, and, moreover, had often, in speaking to Hephzy and me, referred to the “States” as an uncivilized country, this declaration was astonishing. I was astonished for one. Hephzy clapped her hands.
“Of course they aren't,” she declared. “Hosy—Mr. Knowles—didn't mean that they were, either.”