“I see nothing whatever to laugh at,” said Mrs. Hilary coldly, when I
had finished.
“I did not ask you to laugh,” I observed mildly. “I mentioned it merely
as a typical case.”
“It’s not typical,” she said, and took up her embroidery. But a moment
later she added:
“Poor boy! I’m not surprised.”
“I’m not surprised either,” I remarked. “It is, however, extremely
deplorable.”
“It’s your own fault. Why did you introduce him?”
“A book,” I observed, “might be written on the Injustice of the Just.
How could I suppose that he would--?”
By the way, I might as well state what he--that is, my young cousin
George--had done. Unless one is a genius, it is best to aim at being
intelligible.
Well, he was in love; and with a view of providing him with another
house at which he might be likely to meet the adored object, I presented
him to my friend Lady Mickleham. That was on a Tuesday. A fortnight
later, as I was sitting in Hyde Park (as I sometimes do), George came
up and took the chair next to me. I gave him a cigarette, but made no
remark. George beat his cane restlessly against the leg of his trousers.
“I’ve got to go up tomorrow,” he remarked.
“Ah, well, Oxford is a delightful town,” said I.
“D----d hole,” observed George.