: There was an aunt who was never spoken of.
Em.: There you are!
Maj.: But one can't build too much on that. In mid-Victorian days
they labelled all sorts of things as unspeakable that we should
speak about quite tolerantly. I dare say this particular aunt had
only married a Unitarian, or rode to hounds on both sides of her
horse, or something of that sort. Anyhow, we can't wait
indefinitely for one of the children to take after a doubtfully
depraved great-aunt. Something else must be thought of.
Em.: Don't people ever adopt children from other families?
Maj.: I've heard of it being done by childless couples, and those
sort of people -
Em.: Hush! Some one's coming. Who is it?
Maj.: Mrs. Paly-Paget.
Em.: The very person!
Maj.: What, to adopt a child? Hasn't she got any?
Em.: Only one miserable hen-baby.
Maj.: Let's sound her on the subject.
(Enter Mrs. Paly-Paget, R.)
Ah, good morning. Mrs. Paly-Paget. I was just wondering at
breakfast where did we meet last?
Mrs. P.-P.: At the Criterion, wasn't it?
(Drops into vacant chair.)
Maj.: At the Criterion, of course.
Mrs. P.-P.: I was dining with Lord and Lady Slugford. Charming
people, but so mean. They took us afterwards to the Velodrome, to
see some dancer interpreting Mendelssohn's "song without clothes."
We were all packed up in a little box near the roof, and you may
imagine how hot it was. It was like a Turkish bath. And, of
course, one couldn't see anything.
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