aggressive patriotism, Major Jones, Mrs. Whitley, a small, mincing lady of recent and painful refinement, and finally a large and commanding woman with a terrible eye, who was vaguely believed to have taken out a medical degree.
"For what we are about to receive," said Mrs. Wilcox, "the Lord make us truly thankful."
With a creak and a rustle, some five-and-thirty boarders drew in their chairs. The covers were removed, and a ripple of prosy talk began.
As usual, it started with polite enquiries as to each other's health. In boarding-houses it generally does. No one cares a button for you or your ailments, but they ask after them all the same with exasperating regularity and take no interest in the answer.
"How is your cold, Major Jones?"
"Better, thank you, Mrs. Dumaresq—and your neuralgia?"
"Much worse; I never closed my eyes last night."
"But you are taking something for it?"—and so on, and so on, and so on.
New comers at 37, Beaconsfield Gardens, occasionally tried to be conversational. For
