he did, and it's quite ridiculous." By which the vulgar
child meant that class distinctions were ridiculous. She had this way
of rushing subjects, eliding the obvious, and relying on her hearers.
"He told me all about it. He'd been universally provided, he said; and
I promised not to tell. Miss Erskine Peel--that's Orange, you know,
the soprano--went to the manager and said her mother said they _must_
get more men, though it wasn't dancing, or the rooms looked so bad;
only they mustn't be fools, and must be able to say Wagner and Liszt
and things. And he hoped I didn't think he was a fool."

"What did you say?"

"Said I couldn't say--didn't know him well enough. He might be, to
look at. Or not, accordingly. I didn't say _that_, you know, mamma."

"I didn't know, darling. You're very rude sometimes."

"Well, he said he could certainly say Wagner and Liszt, and even more,
because--it was rather sad, you know, mamma dear----"

"Sally, you've told that young man he may call; you know you have!"

"Well, mamma dear, and if I have, I don't see that anybody's mare's
dead. Because, do listen!" Fenwick interposed a parenthesis.

"I don't think you need to be apprehensive, Mrs. Nightingale. He was
an educated young man enough. His not knowing a French phrase like
that implies nothing. Not one in a hundred would." The way in which
the Major, who, of course, had come out of his doze on the inrush of
Miss Sally, looked across at Fenwick as he said this, implied an
acquired faith in the judgment of the latter. Sally resumed.

"Just let me tell you. His name's Bradshaw. Only he's no relation to
_the_ Bradshaw--in a yellow cover, you know. We-e-ell, I don't see
anything in that!" Sally is defending her position against a smile her
mother and Fenwick have exchanged. They concede that there is nothing
in it, and Sally continues. "Where was I? Oh, Bradshaw; yes. He was an
awfully promising violinist--awfully promising! And what do you think
happened? Why, the nerves of his head gave way, and he couldn't stand
the vibration! So it came to being Cattley's or nothing." Sally
certainly had the faculty of cutting a long story short.

She thought the story, so cut, one that her mother and Mr. Fenwick
might have shown a more active interest in, instead of saying it was
time for all of us to be in bed. She did not, however, ascribe to them
any external preoccupation--merely an abstract love of Truth; for was
it not nearly one o'clock in