"Impertinent!"
Her tone, though light, had surely been coloured with apology.
"Well, people are so funny—now. I remember the time when lots of them were foolish in the opposite way. If I thought of them, they seemed to take it as an honour. But then I wasn't thirty-eight, and I was in society."
The German waiter came in with tea. When he had arranged it and gone out, Nigel said, with a certain diffidence:
"I wonder you don't live in the country."
"I know what you mean. But you're wrong. One feels even more out of it there."
She gave him his cup gently, with a movement that implied care for his comfort, almost a thoughtful, happy service.
"The Rector is embarrassed, his wife appalled. The Doctor's 'lady,' much as she longs for one's guineas, tries to stop him even from attending one's dying bed. The Squire, though secretly interested to fervour, is of course a respectable man. He is a 'stay' to country morality, and his wife is a pair of stays. The neighbours respond in their dozens to the mot d'ordre, and there one is plantée, like a lonely white moon encircled by a halo of angry fire. Dear acquaintance, I've tried it. Egypt—Omaha—anything would be better. What are you eating? Have one of these little cakes. They really are good. I ordered them specially for you and our small festivity."
She was smiling as she handed him the plate.
"I should think Egypt would be better!" exclaimed Nigel, with a strength and a vehemence that contrasted almost startlingly with her light, half-laughing tone. "Why don't you go there? Why don't you try the free life?"