“My news, indeed! Gossip, she calls it. If you had to provide for half a dozen daughters, Miss Christabel, you wouldn’t find much time to spend in ‘gossip.’ I go to town to work, and leave it to you at home to run round collecting the news of the neighbourhood. I know nothing. I hear nothing. Men don’t trouble themselves with gossip.”
Seven long-drawn gasps of incredulity greeted this utterance; seven pairs of eyes rolled involuntarily to the ceiling; seven heads wagged in accusation.
“Oh, oh, oh! Who goes on ’Change and is told the latest jokes? Who goes to a café after lunch and smokes with his cronies? Who has afternoon tea, and talks again? Who travels every day with the same men in the train, and hears everything, every—single—tiny—weeny snap of news that has happened within ten miles around?”
“Don’t know, I’m sure. I don’t!”
“Oh, oh! Who told us about Evan Bruce, and about Mabel’s engagement, and the robbery at the Priory, and—and—”
“For pity’s sake, stop talking all at once! Take it in turns. Speak in pairs if you must, but not in a perfect orchestra. I didn’t know I had been the first to hear any of those thrilling incidents, but it was quite an exception if I did. We generally read reviews, or talk business. I’ve no news for you to-night, at any rate.”
“You always say so at first, dear. You’re so forgetful. Think again. Frank Brightwen, now—he told you something?”
“Gold Reef shares gone up two per cent. Market closed firm, with a tendency to rise.”
“I shall buy some at once. I like things that are going to rise. Be sensible now, for I shall have to go to bed in ten minutes, and I do so want to be amused. Had Mr Keeling nothing interesting to relate?”
“Bad cold, and feared influenza. Details of his last attack. Prescriptions from all the other fellows, with accounts of their own experiences.”