But this she knew to be impudent.

On Sunday evenings at home people talked about a future existence, about Nietzsche, Tolstoy, Chinese pictures, post-impressionism, and would suddenly grow hot and furious about peace, and Strauss, justice, marriage, and De Maupassant, and whether people were losing their souls through materialism, and sometimes one of them would get up and walk about the room.

But to-night the only words she could catch were the names of two politicians whom nobody seemed to approve of, except that nice one who was going to bite.

Once very timidly she asked Colonel Martlett whether he liked Strauss, and was puzzled by his answer: "Rather; those 'Tales of Hoffmann' are rippin', don't you think?
You go to the opera much ?" She could not, of course, know that the thought which instantly rose within her was doing the governing classes a grave injustice--almost all of whom save Colonel Martlett knew that the 'Tales of Hoffmann' were by one Offenbach.

But beyond all things she felt she would never, never learn to talk as they were all talking--so quickly, so continuously, so without caring whether everybody or only the person they were talking to heard what they said.