“Got to get the hang of etiquette,” he went on to the fire. “Horses
even. Practise everything. Dine every night in evening dress.... Get a
brougham or something. Learn up golf and tennis and things. Country
gentleman. Oh Fay. It isn’t only freedom from Goochery.”
“Eh?” I said.
“Oh!—Gawshery, if you like!”
“French, George,” said my aunt. “But _I’m_ not ol’ Gooch. I made that
face for fun.”
“It isn’t only freedom from Gawshery. We got to have Style. See! Style!
Just all right and one better. That’s what I call Style. We can do it,
and we will.”
He mumbled his cigar and smoked for a space, leaning forward and
looking into the fire.
“What is it,” he asked, “after all? What is it? Tips about eating; tips
about drinking. Clothes. How to hold yourself, and not say jes’ the few
little things they know for certain are wrong—jes’ the shibboleth
things.”
He was silent again, and the cigar crept up from the horizontal towards
the zenith as the confidence of his mouth increased.
“Learn the whole bag of tricks in six months.” he said, becoming more
cheerful. “Ah, Susan? Beat it out! George, you in particular ought to
get hold of it. Ought to get into a good club, and all that.”
“Always ready to learn!” I said. “Ever since you gave me the chance of
Latin. So far we don’t seem to have hit upon any Latin-speaking stratum
in the population.”
“We’ve come to French,” said my aunt, “anyhow.”
“It’s a very useful language,” said my uncle. “Put a point on things.
Zzzz. As for accent, no Englishman has an accent. No Englishman
pronounces French properly. Don’t you tell _me_. It’s a Bluff.—It’s all
a Bluff. Life’s a Bluff—practically. That’s why it’s so important,
Susan, for us to attend to Style. Le Steel Say Lum. The Style it’s the
man. Whad you laughing at, Susan? George, you’re not smoking. These
cigars are good for the mind.... What do _you_ think of it all? We got
to adapt ourselves. We have—so far.... Not going to be beat by these
silly things.”