been, one feels, just like everybody else, if they hadn't got swallowed
up by Oxford or Cambridge or some such place, and been made cranks of.
The man's really delightful (if he'd cut his nails), and the woman has
quite a fine face, only she dresses, of course, in a potato sack, and
wears her hair like a Liberty shopgirl's. They talk about art, and think
us such poops for dressing in the evening. However, I can't help that;
I'd rather die than come in to dinner without changing--wouldn't you? It
matters ever so much more than the soup. (It's odd how things like that
_do_ matter so much more than what's generally supposed to matter.
I'd rather have my head cut off than wear flannel next the skin.) Then
there's a nice shy girl--poor thing--I wish one could rake her out
before it's too late. She has quite nice eyes and hair, only, of course,
she'll get funny too. We ought to start a society for broadening the
minds of the young--much more useful than missionaries, Hester! Oh, I'd
forgotten there's a dreadful little thing called Pepper. He's just like
his name. He's indescribably insignificant, and rather queer in
his temper, poor dear. It's like sitting down to dinner with an
ill-conditioned fox-terrier, only one can't comb him out, and sprinkle
him with powder, as one would one's dog. It's a pity, sometimes, one
can't treat people like dogs! The great comfort is that we're away from
newspapers, so that Richard will have a real holiday this time. Spain
wasn't a holiday. . . .


"You coward!" said Richard, almost filling the room with his sturdy
figure.

"I did my duty at dinner!" cried Clarissa.

"You've let yourself in for the Greek alphabet, anyhow."