He
listened with exemplary patience to my brief recital and was good
enough to felicitate me.
"Assure you, glad to hear it--glad no end. Worthy fellow; always knew
it. And equal, of course, of course! Take up their equality by all
means if you take 'em up themselves. Curious lot of nose-talking
beggars, and putting r's every place one shouldn't, but don't blame
you. Do it myself if I could--England gone to pot. Quite!"
"Gone to pot, sir?" I gasped.
"Don't argue. Course it has. Women! Slasher fiends and firebrands!
Pictures, churches, golf-greens, cabinet members--nothing safe.
Pouring their beastly filth into pillar boxes. Women one knows.
Hussies, though! Want the vote--rot! Awful rot! Don't blame you for
America. Wish I might, too. Good thing, my word! No backbone in
Downing Street. Let the fiends out again directly they're hungry. No
system! No firmness! No dash! Starve 'em proper, I would."
He was working himself into no end of a state. I sought to divert him.
"About the Honourable George, sir----" I ventured.
"What's the silly ass up to now? Dancing girl got him--yes? How he
does it, I can't think. No looks, no manner, no way with women. Can't
stand him myself. How ever can they? Frightful bore, old George is.
Well, well, man, I'm waiting.
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