go a courting, like that maiden all forlorn that waked the cock that lived under the thorn, that tossed the cow with the crumpled horn, that ate the dog, that swept the cat, that kissed the rat, that worried the house that Jack built.’
‘Dash my wig, Miss Newman, you're quite one of the —eh—ah—um—what the deuce, eh? what the devil, you know, eh? why, those old Greek whaddy-call’ems, demmy, why demmy, I'll be—.’ And Mr Lockstable subsided into a brown study.
‘So you’ve been to Rome, I understand, Lady Humnoddie,’ said Mrs Bristley, who had been taking tea on another part of the lawn and had come over just too late to hear Mr Lockstable’s commentary on his own text. ‘Were you disappointed in the Easter ceremonies, or not? I asked because my husband said he was a good deal disillusioned when he went about six years ago. I remember he called Holy Week at Rome stale, flat, and unprofitable.’
‘No, you don’t say so? I’m surprised at that, Mr Bristley,’ turning to him. ‘I thought it very novel and amusing. Didn’t you think the Pope’s choir sang well, and weren’t you interested in the vespers of those nuns at the Monte Carlo—I mean Trinita del Monte, up the steps there, you know, not far from the Piazza di San Pietro? I forget what order they belong to—not Benedictines, is it? the something—a—’
‘Amazons, demmy! why demmy, Amazons!’ shouted Mr Lockstable, facing his cousin, with a resounding slap on his thigh. ‘Amazons! demmy, Amazons. ‘There you are!’
Everyone stared.
‘An order of nuns called demi-Amazons!’ exclaimed Lady Humnoddie.
‘Aw, no—not an order of nuns,’ leisurely explained Mr Lockstable. ‘I was thinking of those strong-minded Greek charmers who were something after Miss Newman’s style,
