Part 4 (2/2)
”I fear you misunderstand me. I am not patriotic, or republican, or anything else, for that matter.”
”Except the incarnation of contrariety.”
”I hate polemics, so I will cry _touche_ as one does in fencing after a thrust, and end the contest.”
”You mean you would rather thrust than parry. You men are all alike. You told the truth when you expressed a fondness for being pampered, and, as it is the duty of our s.e.x to be compliant, I await your pleasure.”
”If I am to be so indulged, I confess to feeling a craving to hear the promised lecture about those people across the way.”
”I would willingly comply but that falling curtain says it must again be deferred. On second thought, perhaps it would be better to give you an object lesson, so if you will come and see me to-morrow about five, I will take you to a tea where you may meet them all and judge for yourself.”
”I see you mean to prevent my favorite method of character study. I fear you will succeed, as the enticing preventive you suggest cannot possibly fail to be effectual. I willingly submit to your cure and will come to you at the appointed hour.”
The fall of the act drop was followed by a confused fluttering of dresses and hum of voices; people stretched and rose, talked, or wandered toward the foyer, while hundreds of gla.s.ses were leveled at the boxes, and every one of mark or notoriety was scrutinized by hundreds of eyes and criticised by hundreds of tongues. Society was there paraded in two rows of little pens, labeled and ticketed at so many millions per head, to be gazed upon by the curious and envious of that great throng.
Society was the operatic side-show, and society paid dearly for the privilege of being seen.
”Do you like to be gazed at by a crowd, Mr. Grahame?” said Florence, after a momentary silence.
”Yes, I think I do,” he replied. ”It makes one feel so superior to be up above, looking down on the 'madding crowd'.”
”Do you think so? I always feel like a caged animal at a menagerie, where each one who pays the admission fee can gratify the curiosity he has about me, and poke me with his umbrella if he does not like my looks.”
”How absurd; but I understand you are democratic in your feelings and object to cla.s.s distinctions.”
”Not in the least; on the contrary I believe in them. Nature herself has decreed that no two creatures can be equal. What I object to are inflated distinctions which rest on no foundation, and collapse completely when p.r.i.c.ked by sound opinion.”
”Miss Moreland believes in an aristocracy of merit,” interposed Harold Wainwright.
”Yes,” replied Florence, ”but where is it to be found?”
”Not in a republic,” retorted Duncan. ”A democracy is a breeding ground of plutocrats.”
”Perhaps, when its Government discourages every intellectual pursuit,”
replied Wainwright. He felt strongly the ungratefulness of republics, as his father had been a Federal judge on a miserly salary, with no pension after years of faithful service.
”I quite agree with you, Harold,” replied Florence, ”and I only wish I were a man.”
”Why?” interposed Mrs. Sanderson, who had just finished interchanging polite plat.i.tudes with Walter Sedger.
”So that I might express my views about the evils of our political system.”
”And be called by that expressive word which is not in the dictionary, 'a crank',” said Duncan ironically. ”That is the reward of a reformer.”
”John Bright and Wendell Phillips were both 'cranks' in their day,” was the reply, ”but I would not object to their reputation. By the way, here comes a 'crank' whom I almost love,” she added, as a stout, kindly faced, elderly man, whose features wore the sweet expression of earnest and well guided intelligence, approached the box.
”Who is he?” asked Duncan, following her eyes.
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