Mr.
Bernard Shaw shall be banished to a desert island."
And the mayor all the while kept thinking how like her mother Helen was:
her voice, her hair, her eyes, but especially her voice. It filled the
room with many-coloured vibrations of the consistency of building
concrete and hid completely from the mayor's sight the crowd of young
faces, O'Brien, the Board of Aldermen, and the three million presidents
of the Board of Education. Only Helen remained and she came close to him
and laid her cool fingers on his aching head.
The mayor started up to find his wife bending over him.
"Edward," she was saying, "you promised me you would go to bed early."
"My dear," he replied, "I would have if I had not fallen asleep in my
chair. Have you had a pleasant evening at the theatre?"
"It is dreadful weather," she said, "and I have a bit of cold. I suppose
I shouldn't have gone out to-night, but it was the last chance, and you
know the children _would_ see 'Peter Pan.'"
XVIII
THE MARTIANS
The saddest thing about the recent announcement that there are no canals
on Mars is that Robert and I will now have so little to talk about.
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