‘Yes; but they don’t talk about those sort of things at all,’ persisted Edward. ‘How can they? They don’t know anything; they can’t do anything—except play the piano, and nobody would want to talk about that; and they don’t care about anything—anything sensible, I mean. So what do they talk about?’
‘I asked Martha once,’ put in Harold; ‘and she said, “Never you mind; young ladies has lots of things to talk about that young gentlemen can’t understand.”’
‘I don’t believe it,’ Edward growled.
‘Well, that’s what she said, anyway,’ rejoined Harold indifferently. The subject did not seem to him of first-class importance, and it was hindering the circulation of the ginger-beer.
We heard the click of the front-gate. Through a gap in the hedge we could see the party setting off down the road. Selina was in the middle; a Vicarage girl had her by either arm; their heads were together, as Edward had described; and the clack of their tongues came down the breeze like the busy pipe of starlings on a bright March morning.
‘What do they talk about, Charlotte?’ I inquired, wishing to pacify Edward. ‘You go out with them sometimes.’
‘I don’t know,’ said poor Charlotte dolefully. ‘They make me walk behind, ’cos they say I’m too little, and mustn’t hear. And I do want to so,’ she added.
‘When any lady comes to see Aunt Eliza,’ said Harold, ‘they both talk at once all the time. And yet each of ’em seems to hear what the other one’s saying. I can’t make out how they do it. Grown-up people are so clever!’
‘The Curate’s the funniest man,’ I remarked. ‘He’s always saying things that have no sense in them at all, and then laughing at them as if they were jokes. Yesterday, when they asked him if he’d have some more tea, he said, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,” and then sniggered all over. I didn’t see anything funny in that. And then somebody asked him about his button-hole, and he said, “’Tis but a little faded flower,” and exploded again. I thought it very stupid.’
‘O him,’ said Edward contemptuously: ‘he can’t help it, you know; it’s a sort of way he’s got. But it’s these girls I can’t make out. If they’ve anything really sensible to talk about, how is it nobody knows what it is? And if they haven’t—and we know they can’t have, naturally—why don’t they shut up their jaw? This old rabbit here—he doesn’t want to talk. He’s got something better to do.’ And Edward aimed a ginger-beer cork at the unruffled beast, who never budged.