"Still," he added, "it's a great shame, poor woman; only I don't see
what's to be done--"
"I quite agree with you, St. John," Helen burst out. "It's monstrous.
The hypocritical smugness of the English makes my blood boil. A man
who's made a fortune in trade as Mr. Thornbury has is bound to be twice
as bad as any prostitute."
She respected St. John's morality, which she took far more seriously
than any one else did, and now entered into a discussion with him as to
the steps that were to be taken to enforce their peculiar view of what
was right. The argument led to some profoundly gloomy statements of a
general nature. Who were they, after all--what authority had they--what
power against the mass of superstition and ignorance? It was the
English, of course; there must be something wrong in the English blood.
Directly you met an English person, of the middle classes, you were
conscious of an indefinable sensation of loathing; directly you saw the
brown crescent of houses above Dover, the same thing came over you. But
unfortunately St. John added, you couldn't trust these foreigners--
They were interrupted by sounds of strife at the further end of the
table. Rachel appealed to her aunt.
"Terence says we must go to tea with Mrs. Thornbury because she's been
so kind, but I don't see it; in fact, I'd rather have my right hand sawn
in pieces--just imagine! the eyes of all those women!"
"Fiddlesticks, Rachel," Terence replied.
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