“My dear, remembah! You were a girl yourself!” echoed Agatha, in deep-toned remonstrance, and then they began rattling out a list of suggestions.
“Tableaux—”
“Progressive games—”
“Dinner-party. No old fogies! We will choose the guests.”
“Music and conversation. You do the music, and we’ll converse.”
“General frolic, and supper to finish up. If it develops into a dance, so much the better! It’s not coming out to dance on a carpet.”
“Really, Nan, it’s piteous to think how stodgy you have grown! Married sisters are a delusion. We used to imagine coming to stay, and doing whatever we liked, and eating all sorts of indigestible things that we mayn’t have at home. But now Maud can think of nothing but that baby, and you are so prim—too fearfully prim for words.”
“Prim!” shouted Mrs Vanburgh. There is really no other word to express the outraged indignation of her tone. To hear her, one might have supposed it the greatest insult in the world to be accused of primness of demeanour. “You dare to sit there and call me names in my own house! If I am prim, you had better go home and leave me. I wouldn’t stay any longer, if I’m prim. I’m sorry I asked you, if I’m prim. If I’m prim, I wonder why you ever wanted to come. Prim, indeed! If it’s prim to know what is correct and what is not, it’s a pity you are not prim too! If I’m prim, I won’t give any party at all. You had better sit round the fire and knit stockings, and I’ll read aloud The Old Helmet, as I’m so prim.”
Christabel raised her hands to her ears in affected distraction.
“Stop her, somebody—stop her for pity’s sake! When she is once wound up like this she will go on for hours! My dear, I crawl, I grovel before you! You are not prim! Nothing is further removed from your character. You are going to give us as many parties as we like.”