Thornbury enquired.
"There were no gardeners," Mrs. Flushing chuckled. "Nobody but me and
an old woman without any teeth. You know the poor in Ireland lose their
teeth after they're twenty. But you wouldn't expect a politician to
understand that--Arthur Balfour wouldn't understand that."
Ridley sighed that he never expected any one to understand anything,
least of all politicians.
"However," he concluded, "there's one advantage I find in extreme old
age--nothing matters a hang except one's food and one's digestion. All
I ask is to be left alone to moulder away in solitude. It's obvious that
the world's going as fast as it can to--the Nethermost Pit, and all I
can do is to sit still and consume as much of my own smoke as possible."
He groaned, and with a melancholy glance laid the jam on his bread, for
he felt the atmosphere of this abrupt lady distinctly unsympathetic.
"I always contradict my husband when he says that," said Mrs. Thornbury
sweetly. "You men! Where would you be if it weren't for the women!"
"Read the _Symposium_," said Ridley grimly.
"_Symposium_?" cried Mrs. Flushing. "That's Latin or Greek? Tell me, is
there a good translation?"
"No," said Ridley. "You will have to learn Greek."
Mrs. Flushing cried, "Ah, ah, ah! I'd rather break stones in the road. I
always envy the men who break stones and sit on those nice little heaps
all day wearin' spectacles.
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