After a time, however, Christie got rather tired of it, for there
was an elegant sameness about these evenings that became intensely
wearisome to the uninitiated, but she fancied that as each had his
part to play he managed to do it with spirit. Night after night the
wag told his stories, the poet read his poems, the singers warbled,
the pretty women simpered and dressed, the heavy scientific was duly
discussed by the elect precious, and Mrs. Stuart, in amazing
costumes, sailed to and fro in her most swan-like manner; while my
lord stirred up the lions he had captured, till they roared their
best, great and small.
"Good heavens! why don't they do or say something new and
interesting, and not keep twaddling on about art, and music, and
poetry, and cosmos? The papers are full of appeals for help for the
poor, reforms of all sorts, and splendid work that others are doing;
but these people seem to think it isn't genteel enough to be spoken
of here. I suppose it is all very elegant to go on like a set of
trained canaries, but it's very dull fun to watch them, and Hepsey's
stories are a deal more interesting to me."
Having come to this conclusion, after studying dilettanteism through
the crack of the door for some months, Christie left the "trained
canaries" to twitter and hop about their gilded cage, and devoted
herself to Hepsey, who gave her glimpses into another sort of life
so bitterly real that she never could forget it.
Pages:
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43