THE scene is Wilfrid Bertram’s rooms in Piccadilly, facing the Green Park. The time is six o’clock in the afternoon. The audience is a goodly number of men and women of that class which calls itself Society. The rooms are small and the guests are many. A few look contemptuously amused. A great many appear excruciatingly bored.
“It’s all rot!” says one gentleman in confidence to his walking-stick.
It is the general opinion, though it has but one spokesman.
“What a shame, when he is so much in earnest!” says a pretty girl.
“Bores always are awfully in earnest,” replies the critic. “If he’d only give us something to drink——”
“You can get plenty to drink in the street,” says the young lady, with a withering glance.
Meantime, Wilfrid Bertram, who has been speaking for more than an hour without contradiction, except such as he read on his friends’ faces, perceives at last that he has been wearying them; a knowledge which is always slow to steal upon the teacher of mankind.
He stops in the middle of a very fine peroration.
“My dear people,” he remarks, a little irritably—“I mean, ladies and gentlemen—if you are so soon weary of so illimitable a subject, I fear I must have failed to do it justice.”
“So soon?—oh, hang it!” says the man who has wished for something to drink. “We came upstairs at half-past four, and you’ve had all the jaw to yourself ever since, and it’s past six now, and we’re all as thirsty as dogs.”