Launa went frequently, and took Sylvia with her, who was now second leading lady in the new play “Some Cabbages and a Weed.” The interview in the Signal had been of much assistance to her career. Formerly she had an existence—now she had a career. Mr. George devoted himself to her. This evening they met at Lady Blake’s. Launa was quickly surrounded by her friends, by her enemies, and people who could be either, had they known her. She was charming—the self-possession of a duchess, combined with the amiability and cleverness of the unknown woman wishing to be successful.
Mr. George was amusing them by relating the triumphs of the interviewer.
He had been the one to hear the aims and aspirations of the newest “Lady Temperance Lecturer.”
“Is she a Lady Temperance Lecturer?” he asked, “or a Temperance Lady Lecturer? The last way sounds as if one might suspect her of imbibing, and a Lady Temperance Lecturer does not sound—well, is nice the word? Women like that word; it expresses untold things to them, daintinesses and pretty undergarments. To a man it means a woman does not bore him. He does not call his best beloved ‘nice’ merely—angels are not nice.”
“Tell me about the Temperate Lady,” said Launa.
“I think Temperate Lady Lecturer would be a good name,” said Sylvia. “She might have an idea when to stop.”
“It was late,” said Mr. George, “when I interviewed her. She had been lecturing. Her window blinds were not down, and the moon shone in. There appeared to be much temperance in her mansion. We observed the moon with attention and in silence. After she had told me several details of her own life, ‘There is no water in the moon,’ she said, with a solemn air, ‘and nothing to drink. The people in the moon have nothing to drink.’ This whole sentence was in the largest of italics. I suggested that our best astronomers are in doubt as to the fact of human beings living in the moon. ‘Such a beautifully mountainous world,’ she said, ‘must be inhabited. Think of their Switzerland and of their Himalayas! They never have typhoid, for there is no water.’
“ ‘No drinks,’ I said. ‘Nothing to drink,’ she replied. ‘Not even the sea to bathe in, to picnic by in summer,’ I suggested. I won’t publish it all. I asked if the moon were fruitful, and she said, ‘Undoubtedly.’ Then I replied, ‘They are obliged to drink their brandy raw. If it is fruitful there must be grapes, if grapes, brandy’—you see the connection? ‘There is no water to make brandy,’ she observed. ‘Pardon me,’ I said, ‘you do not require water to make brandy only to dilute it, if you have temperance yearnings.’ She gasped, and I left her.”
“How glad she must have been,” said Launa, moving as she spoke to talk to Mr. Wainbridge’s cousin.
The rooms were becoming empty. Sylvia, Launa, Mr. Wainbridge, and Mr. George were standing together. The Member for Hackney joined Launa. He had developed an affection, nay, an inclination towards her. He was too cold for affection; he admired her.