The dowager marchioness sat open-mouthed.
“She must be mad,” said the man as he returned to his seat; “but you know that you really shouldn’t have written it, Vera; really you shouldn’t. People don’t do such things.”
“So revolutionary!” expostulated the dowager marchioness, finding her tongue. “You ought to consider the times. We might as well have Tolstoy in the family, or that horrid little man who led the French strike. Think of your country. Think of her need. Think of our ships.”
“Think of the docks,” the captain added, “or don’t write. That would do just as well.”
“Or, if you must write,” said the aunt, “why not write about the cottage industries? We’ve such a nice cottage industry near us.”
“You might as well be a socialist,” continued the captain; “think of the danger then. Think of the taxes.”
“Think of all the men who are continually being killed,” said the dowager, warming to her argument.
“Think of the condition of your party,” said the captain; and then, having picked up the magazine and hunted out the offending matter, he ceased speaking and carefully adjusted his glass.
Lady Verita leaned back in her chair and seemed to resign herself to the inevitable.
“And if I were not kindness itself,” went on the marchioness, after a slight somnolent pause, “I should feel outraged over your taking your title from me. That”—