"Eh? What? Peculiar? Well, let her be peculiar if she likes. A
woman with her looks can be any damned thing she pleases," was the
infatuated answer.
"I do let her," said her mother meekly; and indeed if she did
not, what difference would it make?
Mrs. Fisher was sorry she had bothered about Lady Caroline. She
went along the hall towards her private sitting-room, and her stick as
she went struck the stone floor with a vigour in harmony with her
feelings. Sheer silliness, these poses. She had no patience with
them. Unable to be or do anything of themselves, the young of the
present generation tried to achieve a reputation for cleverness by
decrying all that was obviously great and obviously good and by
praising everything, however obviously bad, that was different. Apes,
thought Mrs. Fisher, roused. Apes. Apes. And in her sitting-room
she found more apes, or what seemed to her in her present mood more,
for there was Mrs. Arbuthnot placidly drinking coffee, while at the
writing-table, the writing-table she already looked upon as sacred,
using her pen, her own pen brought for her hand alone from Prince of
Wales Terrace, sat Mrs. Wilkins writing; at the table; in her room;
with her pen.
"Isn't this a delightful place?" said Mrs. Arbuthnot cordially.
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