All their talk was of Hauptmann and Sudermann (they dropped them patriotically, I must say, as outrageous fellows, on the outbreak of war), Strindberg, Dostoievsky--though I found they had never read either "Crime and Punishment" or "The Brothers Karamazoff"-- Tolstoi, whom they didn't understand; and in art--God save the mark!--the Cubist school.

That is how my poor young friend, Randall, was trained to get the worst of the frothy scum of intelligent Oxford.

But even he sometimes winced at the pretentiousness of his mother and his aunts.

He was a clever fellow and his knowledge was based on sound foundations.

I need not say that the ladies were rather feared than loved in Wellingsford.
All this to explain why it was that when Marigold woke me from an afternoon nap with the information that Mrs.Holmes desired to see me, I scowled on him.
"Why didn't you say I was dead ?" "I told Mrs.Holmes you were asleep, sir, and she said: 'Will you be so kind as to wake him ?' So what could I do, sir ?" I have never met with an idiot so helpless in the presence of a woman.
He would have defended my slumbers before a charge of cavalry; but one elderly lady shoo'd him aside like a chicken.
Mrs.Holmes was shewn in, a tall, dark, thin, nervous woman wearing pince-nez and an austere sad-coloured garment.
She apologised for disturbing me.
"But," she said, sitting down on the couch, "I am in such great trouble and I could think of no one but you to advise me." "What's the matter ?" I asked.
"It's Randall.