I dare say he would have considered the marriage of the Honourable
George as no more than the marriage of one of his cattle-person
companions. I mean to say, he is a dear old sort and I should never
fail to defend him in the most disheartening of his vagaries, but he
is undeniably insensitive to what one does and does not do.
The conviction ran, let me repeat, that we had another pot of broth on
the fire. I gleaned as much from the Mixer, she being one of the few
others besides Cousin Egbert in whose liking the Honourable George had
not terrifically descended. She made it a point to address me on the
subject over a dish of tea at the Grill one afternoon, choosing a
table sufficiently remote from my other feminine guests, who
doubtless, at their own tables, discussed the same complication. I was
indeed glad that we were remote from other occupied tables, because in
the course of her remarks she quite forcefully uttered an oath, which
I thought it as well not to have known that I cared to tolerate in my
lady patrons.
"As to what Jackson feels about the way it was handed out to him that
Sunday," she bluntly declared, "I don't care a----" The oath quite
dazed me for a moment, although I had been warned that she would use
language on occasion.
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