XV
The Meeting at the
Cottage
“I have been wondering,” the Rector began, “if it would be possible for you to let us have a Temperance Meeting here in your cottage? I feel sure it would be productive of good, and we sadly need more aggressive Temperance work in this parish. And a little gathering in a private house would be more of a novelty than one held in the Parish Room, or at the Rectory.”
“A Temperance Meeting!” I repeated, rather hesitatingly, I confess. I knew well enough that there was work waiting to be done in this direction, but whether those who most needed reforming could be got inside my door was quite another matter.
“Oh, but I am not meaning an evening meeting for the purpose of reaching the men themselves,” the Rector explained. “My idea is to have an afternoon Ladies’ Meeting to discuss more particularly the question of prohibition. We might eventually get up a week of meetings in various parts of the district. Only it all wants talking over. There are a number of ladies who would be willing to aid, if only some definite scheme were put before them. If you would issue the invitations, I know they would be only too pleased to come; and we could possibly get a committee appointed as the initial step in the proceedings.”
I saw at once that the idea was a practical one. Quite a goodly handful of ladies would be available from houses dotted here and there upon the hillside. So we made a list of those living near enough to me to be invited.
“Now, have we overlooked anybody?” I said finally, going down the list once more. It included the Manor House and one or two other large country houses where I knew the people would be sympathetic, the rest being cottage-residences and small places inhabited by people of the educated classes, who kept simple, unassuming establishments—some from choice, some because their means were small. In several cases the ladies dispensed with any servant, finding that life’s problems and breakages and fingermarks were much reduced when they did the work themselves!
“By the way, there are two visitors in the place at present, who would like to come, I am sure,” said the Rector, “One is a very nice girl, who has been doing V.A.D. work since the beginning of the War. She is here recruiting after a nervous breakdown; and is boarding at the Jones’s farm—I know she would appreciate an invitation.” I duly wrote down her name.
“And the other, Miss Togsie, is a literary lady, and is lodging with old Mrs. Perkins; do you happen to know her name?”
I had never heard it before.
“Ah! neither had I. But then that would not be remarkable. Only she seemed surprised to think I did not know of her, though, so far as I can ascertain, she has never actually published anything. She is engaged on some book of research, which she regards as an important contribution to the literature of the times, though for the moment the subject has escaped my memory. She is so exceedingly anxious to meet you; in fact, she—er—suggested that I should take her with me to call on you; but I told her that you come down here for rest and quiet, and to escape the conventionalities of society. She is rather a—er—persistent lady, however; and she says her admiration for you is unbounded. So possibly, if you have no objection, it might make a pleasant interlude if she were invited also.”
I was not very anxious to have her, but I agreed, as the Rector seemed to wish it. Still, I am afraid my smile was a trifle ironical, as I tailed the list with her name.
Unfortunately, the very day of the meeting was the one suddenly selected by Abigail’s sister for her wedding; of course, I insisted that Abigail must not miss the function, and sent her back to town the day before. But when the preparations were divided between the three of us, they did not amount to much in the way of extra work; and Ursula made herself responsible for the fresh relays of tea that would be necessary for new arrivals.
As is the custom in the country, everybody walked round the garden to see how the things were coming on, and we all compared notes with each other’s gardens, and, of course, everybody complimented me on the forwardness of my things—as in duty bound, seeing they were drinking my tea!
The V.A.D. proved a delightful girl, very nervous at first, but very appreciative. And as all my other visitors were fully engaged in chatting together in twos and threes, I devoted myself to the shy outsider. The Literary Lady had not yet appeared.
“I come up every day and look over the wall at your flowers,” the girl said. “I believe they’ve done me far more good than the tonic I’ve been taking.”
“I invariably take a dose of them myself, when I’m run down,” I replied. We were wandering around the narrow paths, between the beds edged with pieces of grey stone. The paths were beginning to be weedy; and the garden was a mixture of early and late spring flowers, owing to the undue length of the winter.
But for the V.A.D. there were no imperfections. “I’ve never seen cowslips like these before,” and she stooped and touched them lovingly. “Those mahogany-coloured ones are so rich. And I like the deep reddy-orange ones too. Oh—I like them all!” she added, with a sigh of pleasure. “And when I was ill in London, before they sent me down here, I felt as though I should die if I couldn’t get away somewhere, where there were flowers and sunshine and where the trees and foliage were fresh and clean. Wherever I looked there were grey skies, and dingy houses, and discoloured paint, and dirty streets, and miserable-looking squares and sooty stuff that it was pitiful to call grass, and smoke and mud all the same colour and equally stupefying. Do you think that dirt can get on people’s nerves?”
I nodded. Don’t I know only too well how the grime and gloom and all-pervading sordidness of big cities can get on one’s nerves! Don’t I know how in time they seem to corrode one’s very soul, and dull one’s vision, till faith itself can become clouded, and hope goes, and all one’s work seems of no avail! But the merciful Lord has provided an antidote. It was a Tree He showed at the waters of Marah; and the leaves of the Tree are for the healing of the nations in more senses than one.
The girl continued her confidences: “When I lay awake at nights with insomnia, I used to shut my eyes and think out the garden I wanted to find. It wasn’t a grand garden, or a gorgeous one that I used to plan—carpet bedding and terraces with beds of geraniums and peacocks would have tired me to arrange in proper style just then. The garden I wanted was the sort of happy place where flowers seem to grow of their own accord with no one to worry them about tidy habits!
“And then, it was quite remarkable, the day after I arrived here, I chanced upon the lane leading to your cottage, and there I saw the very garden I had been so longing for, and the masses of flowers and colour I had been quite hungry to see. I could hardly tear myself away from the little gate. Of course, the florists wouldn’t think much of me for saying it, but although I admire with real wonder the magnificent blooms they exhibit at shows, I would rather have that piece of rocky wall, with its wallflowers on the top, than the most expensive orchids they could show me. But perhaps all this seems rather childish to you?”
Yet it didn’t! I knew exactly what she meant; and every flower-lover will understand it too. There are times when I go a good deal farther than the V.A.D., and actually object to some of the improvements on Nature horticulturists think they can make. What is gained by trying to produce rhododendrons looking like gypsophila, while at the same time they are trying to get gypsophila looking like pæonies? What purpose is served in the modern craze for getting every flower to look like any other flower excepting itself? While I don’t mean to imply that I am so narrow as to object to attempts at horticultural development, there certainly are limits to desirable expansion—as Shakespeare very well knew.
But I had no time to say more, for as she was speaking I caught sight in the distance of a stalwart, aggressive-looking female, with an armful of MSS. and walking-stick clasped to her waistbelt, and clad in a long, loose, tussore silk coat (we were all wearing them short at the moment) that she clutched to her chest with her other hand, as it had lost its fastenings, and was threatening to blow away. Her hat was of the fluffy “girlie” description, somewhat bizarre in shape, which looked preposterous above the lady’s mature locks, more especially as she had put it on hind part front, not even bothering herself to ascertain its compass points.
Miss Togsie was blandly unconscious of any incongruity in her personal appearance, and entered the gate with the assured step of “mind quite oblivious of matter.” Precipitating herself on Ursula—the only hatless person in sight, hence evidently not a fellow guest—she exclaimed in a strident voice, “The Editor of The Woman’s Magazine, I believe? So glad to meet you. I’ve been longing to know you. So kind of you to ask me to this delightful gathering——” etc.
Now, as I told Ursula later, if she had been a true friend, she would merely have smiled sweetly and wafted the new arrival into the house, and silenced her with refreshments. Instead of which, she meanly disclaimed all editorial connections, and piloted her up the garden to me. Whereupon we began all over again. I waited patiently till she reached a semicolon, and then invited her to come indoors and have some tea.
“No tea for me, thank you!” she exclaimed, in tones of stern disapproval. “I never touch tea.”
“Perhaps you would like some milk and a sandwich?”
“Oh, no! I never take flesh foods of any description. I adhere strictly to the fruit diet which Nature has so bountifully provided for our use. If you happen to have a banana, or a few muscatels——” I hadn’t.
“It’s of no consequence,” she said, with an air of kindly tolerance for my shortcomings. “I’m perfectly happy here under the blue dome of heaven.” My other guests seemed to have had enough of her already, and were making their way towards the house, as it was nearly time to start the meeting; but Virginia linked her arm in that of the V.A.D., and followed close at my heels; for her, the lady promised to be interesting.
“Oh, what adorable kroki!” the newcomer went on, without any break, apostrophising a few late crocuses that were already looking jaded. “And those daisies! I do so love daisies, don’t you? ‘Wee modest crimson-tipped flowers’—you remember the poet’s allusion, of course? So appropriate.” The flowers she was pointing at with her knotty walking-stick were particularly large, buxom-looking red double daisies, a prize variety, that not even the imagination of a poet could have described as “wee”!
“It’s wonderful how literature opens one’s eyes to the beauties of nature. I always say ‘Read the poets,’ then it will not matter whether you stay in town or country, nature will be an open book to you.” (Undoubtedly the Literary Lady had arrived; and she was bent either on improving or on impressing us!) “The poets take you into the very heart of things. ‘A primrose by a river’s brim’; where can you find a truer picture of the simple wayside flower? And isn’t that an exquisite line, ‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet’? I entirely agree with Shakespeare in this” (which was nice of her!); “it is just as I was saying, it really doesn’t matter whether you know a single flower individually—or whether you have ever seen a flower, in fact—all nature can be yours. I consider it criminal to neglect the poets. Wherever the eye wanders,” she went on, “it recalls some great truth that has been crystallised for us by literary men” (evidently the flowers themselves were of small count; all that mattered was what pen-and-ink could make out of them).
“And Ladysmocks all silver white.” It was evident that she was warming to the work and going farther afield, for here the stick took a dangerous sweep round in mid-air (Virginia saved her head by dodging it), and was now pointing into the copse the other side of the garden-wall, where the anemones were still in bloom. “I simply revel in Lady’s Smocks, don’t you?” she said ardently to Virginia, and then smiled expansively into the copse, though there wasn’t a solitary Lady’s Smock there.
“For my own part, I must say I prefer Doxies,” said Virginia sweetly. “‘The Doxy over the dale,’ as Shakespeare so beautifully expresses it. Don’t you just love them?”
The V.A.D. had turned her back on us and was studying the distant hills.
“Virginia,” I interpolated hurriedly, for I scented trouble immediately ahead, “isn’t that the Rector coming up the lane? Then we must be getting indoors.”
But the Literary Lady had not nearly said all she had come intending to say; so she told me as we walked to the house that she herself was engaged on a most exhaustive literary work, entitled, “The Cosmic Evidences of Woman’s Supremacy.”
“Yes,” I said, in a blank tone of voice that wasn’t intended to commit me to anything. I’ve handled many similarly exhaustive MSS. in my time, and I’ve met many authoresses of the same, and my one terror was lest she should start to give me a detailed synopsis of each chapter. But fortunately we reached the house before she could get fairly launched.
After the opening hymn and prayer, the Rector briefly sketched his idea in calling the meeting together, and, after reminding us how desirable it was at a time like this that some active campaign should be set afoot to combat the drunkenness that had been such a bane to our land, he asked if any ladies who had suggestions to make would kindly speak briefly and to the point. Hardly had he sat down before the Literary Lady was on her feet urging upon us all the necessity for giving up our inebriate habits! You would have thought she was addressing loafers inside a public-house.
I sat as patiently as I could waiting for her to sit down and give place to someone else, who, at least, knew whom they were addressing. But next moment I found, to my amazement, that she was lecturing us on the advantages of a fruitarian diet, assuring us that most of the evils flesh is heir to (including drunkenness) would be done away with if we only chained our appetites to fruit. She was blissfully unaware that the cause of all the trouble in our district was—cider! After every form of food that was not fruit had been abused, she passed on—by a transition that seemed easy to her, but unaccountable to everyone else—to the question of woman’s suffrage, and we learnt that another cause for drunkenness was to be found in the fact that women had had no votes. And then it dawned upon me that we had let ourselves in for an afternoon with some irresponsible crank.
It really seemed as though she meant to go on for ever. The Rector’s gentle and courteous attempts to stem the rushing torrent were not of the slightest avail. He tried to interpolate a remark now and again, but she never even heard him; she was addressing us at the very top of her voice. Of course he ought to have stopped her at the very outset; but then the situation was one he had never before been called upon to face in the whole of his seventy years; hers was the first female voice to be raised in our parish in defiance of the Rector!
Equally, of course, I ought to have stopped her; but one hesitates to take the initiative in such a case when there is a chairman, and eventually I let matters get quite beyond me. I did rise at the back of the room and try to ask a few questions, but all in vain; the speaker never paused, and at last I meekly sat down again, while Virginia and Ursula, with the V.A.D. between them, suffocated in their handkerchiefs and showed distinct signs of getting out of hand! Besides what can anyone do under such circumstances? I asked Ursula, who once attended election meetings, what it was usual to do, and she said, “You just turn them out when they talk too much.” But who was to turn her out? And how do you set about it?
It was evident from her absurd and illogical statements that neither the Fruitarians nor the Woman’s Suffrage party owned her or would have authorised her to advocate their claims. She was merely one of those women one meets occasionally who take up every new craze that comes along, and get on their feet and speak about their latest hobby, in season and out of season, having not the slightest sense of proportion, and of the fitness of things. Such a woman loves to hear her own voice, and imagines that other people love to hear it too!
After half an hour of this sort of thing the lady of the Manor took her departure—not very quietly either! As I stepped outside in the porch to bid her a mournful “Good-bye,” she pressed my hand and murmured—
“You poor dear! Do let me know who finally chokes her!”
How we should have silenced her eventually I don’t know, but the matter was taken out of our hands by no less important a personage than Johnny, the boy who delivered the bread from the village shop.
Unable to find any Abigail at the kitchen door, he had come along to the other door to know how many loaves I required. From my seat in the room I tried to indicate, by dumb pantomime, that I wanted one loaf; Miss Smith caught sight of him, and remembering that she was two miles away from any bread if he overlooked her, she told him in a clear voice not to forget to leave her a loaf. Then everyone else in the room woke up to the fact that Johnny was outside, and with one accord they all asked him if he had remembered them, or told him how many loaves to leave, and no one troubled in the slightest whether it interfered with the speaker or not. In fact, they seemed to enjoy the clatter they were making.
Johnny, being attacked by so many voices at once, stood on the doorstep and addressed the room stolidly and respectfully—
“I’ve lef’ your loaf on the window-ledge, Miss Primkins; an’ I put two for you in the fork of the apple-tree, Miss Robinson, so’s the dog can’t get at it, as he’s loose; an’ Miss Jones, your’n is on the garden seat; and I’ve a-put Mrs. Wilson’s a-top of the wood-pile wiv a bit of paper under it”—(undue favouritism to Mrs. Wilson, we all thought!)—“an’ I’ve lef’ your nutmegs and soda and coffee on the doorstep, Miss White; and I driv a cow out of your garden, what had got in, Miss Parker; the gate was lef’ open; but he’s latched up all right now——”
At this intelligence the room gave a general shuffle, preparatory to a stampede. Why, a cow might have got into every garden! Who could tell? And only those who have cherished gardens in the country know what terrible import lurked in the words, “The gate was lef’ open!”
The Rector, seeing where matters were trending, said we would close with a hymn. Before he had given out more than one line, Ursula did what she had never done before, and has never done since—raised the tune! She said it was sheer hysterics made her do so. At any rate we all took it up vigorously, because we saw the Literary Lady was trying to add a postscript to her previous remarks. It’s true, Ursula started us on a six-lined tune, whereas the verses were only four lines each, but I fortunately discovered it in time, and repeated the last two lines to save the situation.
The people all left hurriedly as soon as the Benediction had been pronounced; most of them looking unutterable things at me for having let them in for such a time! The Literary Lady alone seemed to have enjoyed herself, and went away leaving the bundle of MSS. she had brought, after telling me that she intended to call on me the very next afternoon and bring me “The Cosmic Evidences,” as she felt sure it would be the very thing for my magazine. The unkindest cut of all, however, was the farewell remark made by the Vicar’s niece, as she was adjusting her bonnet-strings—
“I can’t think why on earth you ever asked that individual to address us; but I suppose she is some personal friend of yours?”
When the two girls and I were left alone with the general disorder that always prevails after one’s guests have gone, Ursula made some tea, and Virginia brought in what was left of the festal fare, and we sat around the fire and ate in melancholy silence.
“I’m going to town by the very first train to-morrow,” I said at last.
“So ’m I!” fervently ejaculated the other two in unison. “And may I never set eyes or ears on that fruit creature again,” added Virginia, as she set down her plate, with an air of a pain in her chest, after her sixth cucumber sandwich.
But, though I escaped the lady’s next call, I had not got to the end of her. She sent an avalanche of MSS. to my office, and called persistently in person. Howbeit, she never was troubled to walk beyond the inquiry office, and her MSS. were always returned to her with the utmost promptitude.
Some weeks later Virginia and I, after doing some shopping in the stores, turned into the refreshment-room for lunch. I do not know any place where a more varied assortment of feminine idiosyncrasies thrust themselves upon one’s notice than in the ladies’ luncheon-room; neither do I know any place where you can hear, within a given space of time, more particulars of the births, marriages, ailments and deaths—plus a wealth of intervening data—of people you know nothing about, than in that self-same room.
We had hardly taken our seats at a table before we were accompanying our next-door neighbour to a dentist, she being in a state of complete nervous prostration (full symptoms given), and having four teeth extracted (most obstinate one that came out in eleven separate pieces) with gas that wouldn’t “take” (italicised description of what the victim underwent, and was conscious of, in her half-gone condition). After this we dallied through an exceedingly comprehensive catalogue of what she had been able to take in the way of nourishment since the momentous occasion; and finally received, with breathless interest, the important information as to the exact date when she would be once more fully equipped for dinner-parties.
On our right two more were discussing, with gusto, the doings (none of them, apparently, what she ought to have done) of a bride who had recently entered their family.
Our own corner of the room was so engaging that we did not notice the newcomers who were finding seats at other tables. But suddenly, above the general chatter, there arose the sound of a strident voice that there was no possibility of mistaking. Virginia and I gasped simultaneously; and there, a short distance away from us (though, fortunately with its back towards us), we beheld the fluffy hat (rightside front this time), above a screw of hair, and the long tussore coat of recent blessed memories! The Literary Lady had a friend with her, but obviously the friend didn’t count for much, she hadn’t a chance; at most she only squeezed in a word when the other made a semi-pause for breath. We sat spell-bound, and this is what we heard:
“Now, dear, what are you going to have? They have soup, roast beef, roast lamb and mint sauce, roast mutton” (and so on, she declaimed the menu to the bitter end, while a long-suffering waitress stood first on one tired foot and then on the other). “Oh, but you must have something more than a bun. . . . Nonsense, that was hours ago; I had mine late, too, but I’m quite ready for lunch. . . . On strict diet, are you? That doesn’t count. Specialists always say that sort of thing; that’s what you pay the money for; but it doesn’t follow that you do what they say. Why, you’d starve to death if you did, and then you’d have to go to them again and pay another fee—though I dare say that’s their idea. . . . You would like a little roast lamb? Well, I might manage a little, too, if it is very hot; but I expect they’ve only got it about lukewarm. If the roast lamb isn’t quite . . . what? It’s cold? All the joints are cold? The waitress says it’s cold, dear! Isn’t it simply ridiculous in a place like London never to be able to get a hot lunch! . . . What? The grill is hot? But, my good girl, I don’t want any grill. . . . And the soup and fish? I don’t want either soup or fish. . . . No, and I don’t want hot steak-and-kidney pie. I wanted hot roast lamb. Still, if you haven’t it, I suppose it isn’t your fault. All the same, it does seem as if you are—— . . . . Sausages, did you say? They would be rather nice. Now are they hot or cold, which? . . . Smoked?? Only smoked sausages?? Did you ever know such a place! . . . What do you say to oysters? . . . You thought I only took fruit? I tried that for a little while; my last doctor but one was very keen on it; but if you believe me, I was losing pounds a week! I should have been a perfect skeleton by now if I’d gone on. So I went to another man, and he insisted—absolutely insisted that I must take food containing a larger percentage of proteids. And I wasn’t sorry; I never had any faith in that fruit idea, only I met that doctor when I was at the Hydro, and he begged me to try it. A most charming man, and he took the greatest interest in my writings; but someone told me only last week that he has a wife who is a positive—— . . . . Salmon? Is there salmon? I didn’t notice it. That wouldn’t be bad, would it? and the very best thing you could have as you’re dieting; so digestible, I always find. Now where’s that girl gone? I declare they slip away the minute your back’s turned, and they don’t give you a moment to look at the menu. Is that our waitress over there? I think it is; she has on an apron just like the girl who was here. . . . That’s true, now you mention it; their aprons are all alike. Still, I think that was the one, and she’s gone over there on purpose to be out of reach. But I’ll go to her.”
Here Virginia and I narrowly escaped detection, for the Literary Lady strode across the room, knocking down other people’s umbrellas in passing, brushing one lady’s velvet stole from the back of a chair, and kicking over a tray that had been put down in, apparently, the most out-of-the-way spot in the room. Clutching the arm of the waitress who belonged to our table and had no dealings with the other end of the room, she demanded immediate service. Instinctively Virginia and I bent our heads forward as low as possible over our plates, and fortunately the wide brims of our hats helped to conceal our features. But we only breathed freely when she returned to her seat to report to her friend—
“That waitress says the other girl will be back in a minute; but I doubt it. There; now she’s gone off too! Ah, here’s ours—at last! Now, dear, you said sausage, didn’t you? Or did we decide on oysters? . . . You’re right; it was salmon. I always think that salmon—— . . . . What did you say? . . . Why, of course we want bread! We couldn’t eat it without, could we? . . . Oh, I see, you mean bread or roll? She says will you have bread or roll, dear? . . . Yes, rolls would be nice, but—— Waitress! Not crusty ones! . . . Well, perhaps bread would be softer for you under the circumstances. Stale bread, waitress! Those rolls are usually as hard as—— . . . . Yes, perhaps we had better decide on what we will have to drink. I’m going to have lime-juice. You’d better have some too. It goes so well with salmon. . . . Of course they have coffee, if you really prefer it; but I do think that lime-juice—— Well, if that girl hasn’t gone off again! They do nothing but run about from pillar to post. Oh, she is bringing the other things! That isn’t brown bread, waitress! I said brown bread surely? I must have said brown bread, because I positively cannot touch anything else. Don’t you remember I called you back and said, ‘Brown bread, waitress?’ Well, if you can change it, that’s all right. Wait a minute, though; after all, I think I’ll have white. . . . Yes, you can leave it; but all the same, I can’t think why people never listen to what one says.”
Here half the room broke out into an unconcealed smile; i.e., the half that had found it impossible to raise their voices above hers, and so had finally given it up as hopeless, and now devoted themselves to listening. But all oblivious of everything but herself, she continued—
“I don’t like the look of that salmon. I feel sure it’s been frozen. Is that the best you have? It looks to me like New Zealand or Canterbury salmon! Really, everything seems to be made in Germany nowadays, doesn’t it? And no mayonnaise. . . ? It’s in the cruet? I never care for that bottled stuff. . . . Oh, yes, leave it; but I wish now that we had had oysters. . . . It’s no use offering to change it; we’ve done nothing else so far but have wrong things brought us to have changed—or at least it would have been changed if I hadn’t consented to put up with the white bread. But you can bring us some lime-juice. Now don’t forget this time and bring ginger-beer. . . . Yes, lime-juice for two. . . . But I thought you agreed to lime-juice just now? . . . Oh, have what you like by all means; I don’t mind what it is; I only advised lime-juice because coffee is so very bad for anyone on diet, and you can’t be too careful; still, please yourself, only do let us decide on something, or she’ll be off again. . . . That’s it, one coffee and one lime-juice. . . . Yes, with plenty of milk. . . . Now, I wonder if that scatter-brained girl will go and put the milk in the lime-juice?
“You were surprised to hear I was back in town? I returned last week. I absolutely couldn’t have existed on that benighted hill-top another hour. . . . I knew the moment I set eyes on it that it wasn’t sufficiently cooked. No one could be expected to eat it. She must get us something else. Waitress! This salmon isn’t half-done. It’s as soft as. . . . Oh, I see; yours is hard? Well, at any rate, it isn’t what it ought to be. Mine is quite spongy, and this lady’s is as hard as . . . the skin, is it? . . . this lady’s skin is just like leather. . . . I suppose it had better be oysters. . . . Now I wonder how much longer she’ll keep us waiting? But as I was saying, they were the dullest, most bucolic set of people I ever came across; not a thought above their fowls and cabbages. I tried to discuss Art and Literature with them—simple things, not too far above their heads, you know, just to draw them out; but they merely gazed at me in utter blankness. . . . Yes, she has a cottage there; I’d forgotten I mentioned it in my letter. . . . Oh, yes, I met her; in fact she persuaded me to address a drawing-room meeting at her house; she got it up on purpose, hearing I was in the district. I could ill afford to spare the time from my book; but she wrote and made such a point of it, that I could hardly refuse without seeming rude. She invited a number of the local people to meet me; but a more stupid, unimpressionable collection of—— . . . what is she like? Most ordinary. As you know, I’m endowed with unusual intuition, and can gauge people and sum them up in a moment, and I must say I found her a very uninteresting person—not to say exceedingly heavy.”
“Which only proves,” said Virginia when we got outside, “that even the worst of us may profit by hearing the truth spoken in love!”