The Botts were having a large house party for the occasion.
“Lord Merton is going to be there,” said Mrs. Brown to her husband, looking up from her usual occupation of darning socks, as he entered the room. “Just fancy! He’s in the Cabinet! Mr. Bott’s got to know his son in business and he’s coming down for it and going to stay the night.”
“That fellow!” snorted Mr. Brown, “he ought to be shot.” Mr. Brown’s political views were always very decided and very violent. “He’s ruining the country.”
“Is he, dear?” said Mrs. Brown in her usual placid voice. “But I’m sure he’ll look awfully nice as a Toreador. She says he’s going as a Toreador.”
“Toreador!” snorted Mr. Brown, “very appropriate too. He is a Toreador!—and we’re the—bull. I tell you that man’s policy is bringing the country to rack and ruin. When you’re dying of starvation you can think of the fellow Toreadoring—Toreador indeed! I wonder decent people have him in their houses. Toreador indeed. I tell you he’s bleeding the country to death. He ought to be hung for murder. That man’s policy, I tell you, is wicked—criminal. Leave him alone and in ten years time he’ll have wiped out half the population of England by slow starvation. He’s killing trade. He’s ruining the country.”
“Yes, dear,” murmured Mrs. Brown, “I’m sure you’re right.... I think these blue socks of yours are almost done, don’t you?”
“Ruining it!” snorted Mr. Brown, going out of the room and slamming the door.
William looked up from the table where he was engaged theoretically in doing his homework. Practically he was engaged in sticking pins into the lid of his pencil case.
“Why’s he not in prison if he’s like that?” said William.
“Who, darling?” said Mrs. Brown, “your father?”