“Do you know, Mrs. Temperley,” she said in her incessantly vivacious manner, “I have scarcely heard a serious word since our two Professors came to us. Isn’t it disgraceful? I naturally expected to be improved and enlightened, but they are both so frivolous, I can’t keep them for a moment to any important subject. They refuse to be profound. It is I who have to be profound.”
“While we endeavour to be charming,” said Professor Theobald.
“You may think that flattering, but I confess it seems to me a beggarly compliment (as men’s to women usually are).”
“You expect too much of finite intelligence, Lady Engleton.”
“This is how I am always put off! If it were not that you are both such old friends—you are a sort of cousin I think, Professor Fortescue—I should really feel aggrieved. One has to endure so much more from relations. No, but really; I appeal to Mrs. Temperley. When one is hungering for erudition, to be offered compliments! Not that I can accuse Professor Fortescue of compliments,” she added with a laugh; “wild horses would not drag one from him. I angle vainly. But he is so ridiculously young. He enjoys things as if he were a schoolboy. Does one look for that in one’s Professors? He talks of the country as if it were Paradise Regained.”
“So it is to me,” he said with a smile.
“But that is not your rôle. You have to think, not to enjoy.”
“Then you must not invite us to Craddock Place,” Professor Theobald stipulated.
“As usual, a halting compliment.”
“To take you seriously, Lady Engleton,” said Professor Fortescue, “(though I know it is a dangerous practice) one of the great advantages of an occasional think is to enable one to relish the joys of mental vacuity, just as the pleasure of idleness is never fully known till one has worked.”