“Well, then,” I said, “let us sit down and talk it over. Do you find you get enough mental stimulus in the town?”
“Do you mean that there is a lack of culture?” he asked. “Because if so you have put your finger on the weakest point in our society. I find an extraordinary lack of enthusiasm for anything really great in literature or painting or music. It is quite deplorable; it has evidently struck you——”
“It has, indeed.” (This was the most successful visit I had paid.) “I should be so glad if there were anything in that direction that I could throw light upon for you.”
“I didn’t know that you were an authority on these things, Mrs. Molyneux,” he said, greatly impressed.
“I am not,” I answered. “I don’t know anything about any of them, but you are in my district, so I was bound to come and take an interest in you, wasn’t I?”
The dear thing was so nice about it, and talked so charmingly about the Pre-Raphaelites, and the Saturday Review, and the ungracefulness of crinolines, that I felt there was no room in him for improvement, so I would go to some more deserving case. I called next upon Mr. Figgins who writes books. I found him writing in his study.
“Good afternoon, Figgins, hard at work as usual,” I began.
He was very nice to me, and pretended he was not at all busy, so I sat down on the edge of my chair, and looked about.
“This is my day for the district,” I said, “and I knew I should find you at home just now. I suppose you are beginning to make plenty of money with your books? I hope you are putting some of it by.”
Mr. Figgins looked at me rather curiously, and said he would order tea.