“You needn't go on. 'Is Vanity.' Polly, I thank you. These vermin--” Mrs. Hauksbee waved her hand from the veranda to two men in the crowd below who had raised their hats to her--“these vermin shall not rejoice in a new Scandal Point or an extra Peliti's. I will abandon the notion of a salon. It did seem so tempting, though. But what shall I do? I must do something.”
“Jack has made you nearly as bad as himself! I want to, of course. I'm tired of everything and everybody, from a moonlight picnic at Seepee to the blandishments of The Mussuck.”
“Yes--that comes, too, sooner or later, Have you nerve enough to make your bow yet?”
Mrs. Hauksbee's mouth shut grimly. Then she laughed. “I think I see myself doing it. Big pink placards on the Mall: 'Mrs. Hauksbee! Positively her last appearance on any stage! This is to give notice!' No more dances; no more rides; no more luncheons; no more theatricals with supper to follow; no more sparring with one's dearest, dearest friend; no more fencing with an inconvenient man who hasn't wit enough to clothe what he's pleased to call his sentiments in passable speech; no more parading of The Mussuck while Mrs. Tarkass calls all round Simla, spreading horrible stories about me? No more of anything that is thoroughly wearying, abominable and detestable, but, all the same, makes life worth the having. Yes! I see it all! Don't interrupt, Polly, I'm inspired. A mauve and white striped 'cloud' round my excellent shoulders, a seat in the fifth row of the Gaiety, and both horses sold. Delightful vision! A comfortable armchair, situated in three different draughts, at every ballroom; and nice, large, sensible shoes for all the couples to stumble over as they go into the veranda! Then at supper. Can't you imagine the scene? The greedy mob gone away. Reluctant subaltern, pink all over like a newly-powdered baby--they really ought to tan subalterns before they are exported--Polly--sent back by the hostess to do his duty. Slouches up to me across the room, tugging at a glove two sizes too large for him--I hate a man who wears gloves like overcoats--and trying to look as if he'd thought of it from the first. 'May I ah--have the pleasure 'f takin' you 'nt' supper?' Then I get up with a hungry smile. Just like this.”