Lady Ursula was acquiescent if unenthusiastic. When she thought about marriage at all, which was rarely (for her chief interests were a girls’ club in Canning Town and a younger brother at school), she thought what a pity it was that one had to be so ill to have children. Her married friends spoke of this almost with relish and her mother with awe.
An innate dilatoriness of character rather than any doubt of the ultimate issue kept Edward from verbal proposal. He had decided to arrange everything before Christmas and that was enough. He had no doubt that a suitable occasion would soon be devised for him. It was clearly suitable that he should marry before he was thirty. Now and then when he was with Ursula he felt a slight quickening of possessive impulse towards her fragility and distance; occasionally when he read some rather lubricious novel or saw much lovemaking on the stage he would translate the characters in his mind and put Lady Ursula, often incongruously, in the place of the heroine. He had no doubt that he was in love. Perhaps he would propose this very evening and get it over. It was up to Lady Ursula to engineer an occasion. Meanwhile he kept the conversation on to the subject of labour problems in Montreal, about which his information was extensive and accurate.
“He’s a nice, steady boy,” said the Duchess, “and it’s a comfort, nowadays, to see two young people so genuinely fond of each other. Of course, nothing is actually arranged yet, but I was talking to Fanny Throbbing yesterday, and apparently Edward has already spoken to her on the subject. I think that everything will be settled before Christmas. Of course, there’s not a great deal of money, but one’s learnt not to expect that nowadays, and Mr. Outrage speaks very highly of his ability. Quite one of the coming men in the party.”
“Well,” said Lady Circumference, “you know your own business, but if you ask me I shouldn’t care to see a daughter of mine marry into that family. Bad hats every one of them. Look at the father and the sister, and from all I hear the brother is rotten all through.”
“I don’t say it’s a match I should have chosen myself. There’s certainly a bad strain in the Malpractices … but you know how headstrong children are nowadays, and they seem so fond of each other … and there seem so few young men about. At least I never seem to see any.”
“Young toads, the whole lot of them,” said Lady Circumference.
“And these terrible parties which I’m told they give. I don’t know what I should have done if Ursula had ever wanted to go to them … the poor Chasms. …”
“If I were Viola Chasm I’d give that girl a thunderin’ good hidin’.”
The topic of the Younger Generation spread through the company like a yawn. Royalty remarked on their absence and those happy mothers who had even one docile daughter in tow swelled with pride and commiseration.
“I’m told that they’re having another of their parties,” said Mrs. Mouse, “in an aeroplane this time.”
“In an aeroplane? How very extraordinary.”
“Of course, I never hear a word from Mary, but her maid told my maid …”
“What I always wonder, Kitty dear, is what they actually do at these parties of theirs, I mean, do they … ?”
“My dear, from all I hear, I think they do.”
“Oh, to be young again, Kitty. When I think, my dear, of all the trouble and exertion which we had to go through to be even moderately bad … those passages in the early morning, and mama sleeping next door.”
“And yet, my dear, I doubt very much whether they really appreciate it all as much as we should … young people take things so much for granted. Si la jeunesse savait.”
“Si la vieillesse pouvait, Kitty.”
Later that evening Mr. Outrage stood almost alone in the supper-room drinking a glass of champagne. Another episode in his life was closed, another of those tantalizing glimpses of felicity capriciously withdrawn. Poor Mr. Outrage, thought Mr. Outrage; poor, poor old Outrage, always just on the verge of revelation, of some sublime and transfiguring experience; always frustrated. … Just Prime Minister, nothing more, bullied by his colleagues, a source of income to low caricaturists. Was Mr. Outrage an immortal soul, thought Mr. Outrage; had he wings, was he free and unconfined, was he born for eternity? He sipped his champagne, fingered his ribbon of the Order of Merit, and resigned himself to the dust.
Presently he was joined by Lord Metroland and Father Rothschild.
“Margot’s left—gone on to some party in an airship. I’ve been talking to Lady Anchorage for nearly an hour about the younger generation.”
“Everyone seems to have been talking about the younger generation tonight. The most boring subject I know.”
“Well, after all, what does all this stand for if there’s going to be no one to carry it on?”
“All what?” Mr. Outrage looked round the supper-room, deserted save for two footmen who leant against the walls looking as waxen as the clumps of flowers sent up that morning from hothouses in the country. “What does all what stand for?”
“All this business of government.”
“As far as I’m concerned it stands for a damned lot of hard work and precious little in return. If those young people can find a way to get on without it, good luck to them.”
“I see what Metroland means,” said Father Rothschild.
“Blessed if I do. Anyway I’ve got no children myself, and I’m thankful for it. I don’t understand them, and I don’t want to. They had a chance after the war that no generation has ever had. There was a whole civilization to be saved and remade—and all they seem to do is to play the fool. Mind you, I’m all in favour of them having a fling. I dare
