“It is. It must seem barbarous to you.”
“It does.”
“Or if you are a woman we send our carriages to let you drive where you like. Or we send you invitations to go to needlework exhibitions where you have to pay five shillings admission.”
I said nothing, and he laughed.
“I know they have done that to you,” he exclaimed. “Haven’t they?”
“I have been delightfully entertained at luncheons and dinners and teas, and I have been introduced to as charming people in London as I ever hope to meet anywhere,” I said, stolidly.
“But you won’t tell about the needlework. Oh, I say, but that’s jolly! Fancy what you said when you began to get those beastly things!” And he laughed again.
“I didn’t say anything,” I said. Then he roared. Yet he claimed to be a “typical Britisher.”
“We mean kindly,” he went on. “You mustn’t lay it up against us.”
“Oh, we don’t. We are having a lovely time.”