Flushing curtly. "That
is, if he takes my advice."
The Ambroses had not lived for many years in London without knowing
something of a good many people, by name at least, and Helen remembered
hearing of the Flushings. Mr. Flushing was a man who kept an old
furniture shop; he had always said he would not marry because most women
have red cheeks, and would not take a house because most houses have
narrow staircases, and would not eat meat because most animals bleed
when they are killed; and then he had married an eccentric aristocratic
lady, who certainly was not pale, who looked as if she ate meat, who had
forced him to do all the things he most disliked--and this then was the
lady. Helen looked at her with interest. They had moved out into the
garden, where the tea was laid under a tree, and Mrs. Flushing was
helping herself to cherry jam. She had a peculiar jerking movement of
the body when she spoke, which caused the canary-coloured plume on
her hat to jerk too. Her small but finely-cut and vigorous features,
together with the deep red of lips and cheeks, pointed to many
generations of well-trained and well-nourished ancestors behind her.
"Nothin' that's more than twenty years old interests me," she continued.
"Mouldy old pictures, dirty old books, they stick 'em in museums when
they're only fit for burnin'."
"I quite agree," Helen laughed.
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