Nothing, For Instance, Can Blot From My Memory The
Profound, Searching, And Exhaustive Analysis Of A Great Nation Which
I Learned In My Small Geography When I Was A Child, Namely, 'The
French Are A Gay And Polite People, Fond Of Dancing And Light
Wines.'
One young Englishman whom I have met lately errs on the side of
over-appreciation.
He laughs before, during, and after every remark
I make, unless it be a simple request for food or drink. This is an
acquaintance of Willie Beresford, the Honourable Arthur Ponsonby,
who was the 'whip' on our coach drive to Dorking, - dear, delightful,
adorable Dorking, of hen celebrity.
Salemina insisted on my taking the box seat, in the hope that the
Honourable Arthur would amuse me. She little knew him! He sapped
me of all my ideas, and gave me none in exchange. Anything so
unspeakably heavy I never encountered. It is very difficult for a
woman who doesn't know a nigh horse from an off one, nor the
wheelers from the headers (or is it the fronters?), to find subjects
of conversation with a gentleman who spends three-fourths of his
existence on a coach. It was the more difficult for me because I
could not decide whether Willie Beresford was cross because I was
devoting myself to the whip, or because Francesca had remained at
home with a headache. This state of affairs continued for about
fifteen miles, when it suddenly dawned upon the Honourable Arthur
that, however mistaken my speech and manner, I was trying to be
agreeable.
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