Cambridge is not what it was in my
father's time.
TROTTER. Well, I must say!
FANNY. Just so. Thats one of our classifications in the Cambridge
Fabian Society.
TROTTER. Classifications? I dont understand.
FANNY. We classify our aunts into different sorts. And one of the
sorts is the "I must says."
TROTTER. I withdraw "I must say." I substitute "Blame my cats!" No:
I substitute "Blame my kittens!" Observe, Miss O'Dowda: kittens. I
say again in the teeth of the whole Cambridge Fabian Society, kittens.
Impertinent little kittens. Blame them. Smack them. I guess what is
on your conscience. This play to which you have lured me is one of
those in which members of Fabian Societies instruct their grandmothers
in the art of milking ducks. And you are afraid it will shock your
father. Well, I hope it will. And if he consults me about it I shall
recommend him to smack you soundly and pack you off to bed.
FANNY. Thats one of your prettiest literary attitudes, Mr Trotter;
but it doesnt take me in. You see, I'm much more conscious of what
you really are than you are yourself, because weve discussed you
thoroughly at Cambridge; and youve never discussed yourself, have you?
TROTTER. I--
FANNY. Of course you havnt; so you see it's no good Trottering at me.
TROTTER. Trottering!
FANNY. Thats what we call it at Cambridge.
TROTTER. If it were not so obviously a stage _cliche_, I should say
Damn Cambridge.
Pages:
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29