One reads a lot about
love--that's why poetry's so dull. But what happens in real life, he? It
ain't love!" she cried.
Terence murmured something unintelligible. Mr. Flushing, however, had
recovered his urbanity. He was smoking a cigarette, and he now answered
his wife.
"You must always remember, Alice," he said, "that your upbringing
was very unnatural--unusual, I should say. They had no mother," he
explained, dropping something of the formality of his tone; "and a
father--he was a very delightful man, I've no doubt, but he cared only
for racehorses and Greek statues. Tell them about the bath, Alice."
"In the stable-yard," said Mrs. Flushing. "Covered with ice in winter.
We had to get in; if we didn't, we were whipped. The strong ones
lived--the others died. What you call survival of the fittest--a most
excellent plan, I daresay, if you've thirteen children!"
"And all this going on in the heart of England, in the nineteenth
century!" Mr. Flushing exclaimed, turning to Helen.
"I'd treat my children just the same if I had any," said Mrs. Flushing.
Every word sounded quite distinctly in Terence's ears; but what were
they saying, and who were they talking to, and who were they, these
fantastic people, detached somewhere high up in the air? Now that they
had drunk their tea, they rose and leant over the bow of the boat. The
sun was going down, and the water was dark and crimson.
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