“The bourgeoisie,” I said, “is the nation's granary of the virtues. But for God's sake, don't tell any one that I said so!”
“Why?” she asked.
“If it found its way into print it would ruin my reputation for epigram.”
She drew a step or two towards me in her slow rhythmic way, and smiled.
“When you say or do a beautiful thing you always try to bite off its tail.”
Then she turned and drew some needlework—plain sewing I believe they call it—from beneath the Union Jack cushion and sat down.
“I'll make a confession,” she said. “Until now I've stuffed away my work when I heard you coming. I didn't think it genteel. What do you think?”
I scanned the shapeless mass of linen or tulle or whatever it was on her lap.
“I don't know whether it's genteel,” I remarked, “but at present it looks like nothing on God's earth.”
My masculine ignorance of such mysteries made her laugh. She is readily moved to mild mirth, which makes her an easy companion. Besides, little jokes are made to be laughed at, and I like women who laugh at them. There was a brief silence. I smoked and made Adolphus stand up on his hind legs and balance sugar on his nose. His mistress sewed. Presently she said, without looking up from her work: