travel books: next to Mrs. Wellard. But they would go on talking about what Mrs. Carstairs had fancied, and what Mr. Wellard might be supposed to fancy ... and Hayward's Grove ... and Westaways ... and, no doubt, the late Mr. Stoker, for a long time yet ... until at last Sylvia would put ori a hat (again a matter of time) and go down the road and round the corner to wherever Mrs. Carstairs went round the corner, and dazzle a fishmonger by promising him that he could continue to send round to Number 6, and stimulate now the brain of the author of Birzdzveed. Yes, Sylvia's time was accounted for. Already she was 'it. it'. But what about Mr. Wellard? `I know,' said Reginald suddenly. `What fun!' So he, too, put on his hat (a matter of no time at all) and went off to Bingley Mason's, saying doubtfully to himself as he went, `it is Bingley Mason's, isn't it?' For though Bingley Mason, A. H. Pratt, Miller and Peabody, Stauntons and Weatherby Bell a11 sell the most enchanting things for ladies, yet there are ladies and ladies. Great ladies, real ladies, pretty ladies, undoubted ladies, and women who shudder at the word lady, all of them made more great, more real, more pretty, more undoubted, more womanly by one or other of these gentlemen. And though the windows through which all these ladies are irresistibly drawn are equally eye-opening to a man, yet to his wife one only is the opening to Paradise. At the others she shrugs her lovely shoulders and says, `Oh! Stauntons,' or, if in kindly mood, `Wonderfully good for Weatherby Bell,' knowing by instinct that Bingley Mason's alone carries the hall-mark of class. `At least,' said Reginald doubtfully, `I think it's Bingley Mason's.' In the days of man's financial innocence, before the books

Books > Old Books > Two People (1932)

Page 159

CHAPTER ELEVEN

next to Mrs. Wellard. But they would go on talking about what Mrs. Carstairs had fancied, and what Mr. Wellard might be supposed to fancy ... and Hayward's Grove ... and Westaways ... and, no doubt, the late Mr. Stoker, for a long time yet ... until at last Sylvia would put ori a hat (again a matter of time) and go down the road and round the corner to wherever Mrs. Carstairs went round the corner, and dazzle a fishmonger by promising him that he could continue to send round to Number 6, and stimulate now the brain of the author of Birzdzveed. Yes, Sylvia's time was accounted for. Already she was 'it. it'. But what about Mr. Wellard?
`I know,' said Reginald suddenly. `What fun!'
So he, too, put on his hat (a matter of no time at all) and went off to Bingley Mason's, saying doubtfully to himself as he went, `it is Bingley Mason's, isn't it?'
For though Bingley Mason, A. H. Pratt, Miller and Peabody, Stauntons and Weatherby Bell a11 sell the most enchanting things for ladies, yet there are ladies and ladies. Great ladies, real ladies, pretty ladies, undoubted ladies, and women who shudder at the word lady, all of them made more great, more real, more pretty, more undoubted, more womanly by one or other of these gentlemen. And though the windows through which all these ladies are irresistibly drawn are equally eye-opening to a man, yet to his wife one only is the opening to Paradise. At the others she shrugs her lovely shoulders and says, `Oh! Stauntons,' or, if in kindly mood, `Wonderfully good for Weatherby Bell,' knowing by instinct that Bingley Mason's alone carries the hall-mark of class. `At least,' said Reginald doubtfully, `I think it's Bingley Mason's.'
In the days of man's financial innocence, before the