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December 14 - December 27, 2023
Whilst Walter, who apparently was going to write an article on Puvis de Chavannes, was examining the picture of John the Baptist, Paul gazed at the large Manet and wished he were dead.
Jerome Field was one of those rare and satisfactory people who always play the exact part that would be expected of them. At this particular juncture it was obviously indicated that he should register a slightly offended amazement. He did so.
He was enjoying this conversation as people can only enjoy talking about themselves.
To be honest, I should like the baby a good deal better if she wasn’t the split image of Walter’s Aunt Lucy; all the same I am getting quite attached to her in a sort of way, and Walter’s so impressed by being a father that he’s actually looking out for a job. You know, motherhood is an enormous financial asset in these days; to begin with you get pounds and pounds for publishing a photograph of a child twice or three times her age and saying she’s so well-grown because of Gatebury’s food, then you get more pounds for saying that no nursing mother would care to retire without her cup of Bovo,
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Lady Bobbin herself, dressed in a riding habit, flannel shirt and soft felt hat, looked almost human. She was one of those women who are only tidy and presentable when wearing some kind of uniform.
‘Then go and tell Mother that we’re engaged.’ ‘I’m going to, tomorrow morning.’ ‘You said that yesterday.’ ‘I know I did. I felt so awful this morning that I simply couldn’t face it. There were brains for breakfast again, and the sight of them always upsets me.
(Amabelle had an amazing faculty for knowing to a penny the incomes of her friends)
Philadelphia found herself once more without any occupation or interests, and for the rest of that day she sat before the fire in an arm-chair, assailed by the ghastly boredom only known to those who live in the country but have no love for country pursuits, and no intellectual resources on which they can fall back.
