his own thoughts. ‘I’m afraid it is the little cloud, no bigger than a man’s hand.’
‘I must say,’ remarked his niece, in a more serious vein, ‘that much as I dote on sweet Friga, I do wish someone else than her excellent father were at the head of affairs. He’s too pliable to steer a Bungling Coalition. They say, too, that he leaves foreign policy entirely to his relative the Foreign Secretary, who, in turn, leaves it to the Under Secretary, that Irishman Fitzgorin.’
‘Well, what then, Lesbie?’ asked her uncle.
‘Why,’ she replied, ‘you know that—
While twisting one twist, three twists he must twist;
But if while twisting, one twist should untwist,
The twist untwisting untwists the twist.
Through him or through others, I am afraid our twist will be undone.’
‘My belief has always been,’ said Mr Bristley, ‘that the better plan would be to cut Ireland adrift. Leaving them to shift for themselves would, in practice, draw them closer to us: such is human nature. “You shall,” is always answered by “We won't;” but “Do as you please,” often leads to calm reconsideration.’
‘I believe so too, Uncle Spines,’ answered Lesbia; ‘but the Irish difficulty is only one among the many bad signs of the times. Does it not strike you that the social as well as the political atmosphere is lurid and gathering? A bubble is biggest before it bursts, and the society of the day gives me the idea of an inflated bubble. Bedridden superstitions seem to be regaining their hold; the ruling classes are lapsing into that condition where they learn nothing and forget nothing. Advances in the direction of pure taste unsullied by vulgarity cannot be made, even in such matters as female attire—not to any appreciable extent. There is little real
