The people who still came to his studio because he had the
reputation of being a wit and the husband of his parlour-maid (whom
to her indignation they called Queen Cophetua) cared not a straw
about Art in any shape or form. The women wanted the Vote--few of
them knew why--the men wanted to be aviators, motorists beating the
record in speed on French trial trips, or Apaches in their relations
with the female sex or prize-fighters--Jimmy Wilde had displaced
Oscar, to the advantage of humanity, even Praddy agreed.
To Praed however Vivie took the bitterness, the disillusions which
came over her at intervals:
"I feel, Praddy, I'm getting older and I seem to be at a loose end.
D'you know I'm on the verge of thirty-seven--and I have no definite
career? I'm rather tired of being a well-meaning adventuress."
"Then why," Praddy would reply, "don't you go and live with your
mother?"
"Ugh! I couldn't stand for long that life in Belgium or elsewhere
abroad. They seem miles behind us, with all our faults. Mother only
seems to think now of good things to eat and a course of the waters
at Spa in September to neutralize the over-eating of the other
eleven months. There is no political career for women on the
Continent."
"Then why not marry and have children? That is a career in itself.
Look at Honoria, how happy she is."
"Yes--but there is only one man I could love, and he's married
already.
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