“No interesting books are written nowadays,” she said, giving a final throttle to our already extinct debate. “They seem all nonsense about heredity and character, and things of that sort. That doesn’t make evil any better. If people had larger families there would be bound to be some good children among the lot, and the others would soon find their level.”
Miss Darling interposed her velvet heart between further severity and us.
“You ought to read some of George Birmingham’s books,” she said bravely. “They are so amusing, and not a bit morbid.”
“I have read one,” flourished the old lady, “and I never met with greater nonsense in my life. Most impossible rubbish. I know numbers of Irish people, and they are indolent and dreamy, with an immense respect for England. I never heard of any of them poking fun at our Members of Parliament, and that sort of thing, and they were all far too idle to think of going on ridiculous adventures. What do you think, Mrs. Cambridge? Your husband is an authority on literature I am told.” This was no more an invitation to discussion than is the spider’s lure the bidding of a genial host, but Mrs. Cambridge is far from ingenuous.
“We both liked some of them,” she said quietly, “but then my husband is Irish, you know, so you must excuse him.”
Mrs. Bushytail scowled at her and remarked, “Humph! I suppose there are different grades of society in Ireland, just as there are here. Are any of you going to the Mayor’s reception?”
“I suppose I ought to go,” said Mrs. County wearily, “but I declined; they are such dreadful people!”
Mrs. Merchant said that she was going, and asked me if I would like to go with her. She added, poor dear, that she was “afraid I should not find it very lively—not like my Bohemian parties with all the great Academicians, and clever people....”
Dear Louise, why does not a merciful Providence, whose will it is to fashion us in such humorous variety, put directions for use on our backs, or send a bottle of medium with us by which we could communicate with one another? Ought I to have replied, “Dear Mrs. Merchant, I will make the best of your friends, and when you come to stay with me I will try to collect some people with double chins and dictatorial manners who know all about boiling soap and making beef-juice”? I should take it for granted that she would like my friends, or, at all events, that she would find something interesting in them, and perhaps enjoy a change from her own species. So why is it to be supposed that I cannot live without my own form of shop?
“Who is the present Mayor?” asked Mrs. Cambridge. “He came to the University the other day, and I thought he looked rather a strange person to have at the head of a big city like this.”