felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also.
"I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person—for example, Freddy Honeychurch."
"Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?"
"Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is."
Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science.
"Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on extracting tea before evening service."
"I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary—I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?"
"I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs."
"The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small."
