There were others who, while they allowed that she had plenty of common-sense (and indeed on occasion, in a cut-and-thrust argument, Barbara showed herself cunning of fence, and by no means deficient in repartee), would call her stuck-up and proud; and there were some, indeed, who repudiated the mere fact of her having lived in a different class of society to which they were not admitted, as in itself an insult and a shame. And even those who were disposed to soften all defects and to exaggerate all virtues--and they were by no means few in number--failed to what they call "get on" with the new Mrs. Churchill. They had no subjects of conversation in common; for even when literary subjects were introduced, they frightened Barbara by their iconoclastic tendencies; deliberately smashing up all those gods whom she had hitherto been accustomed to reverence, and erecting in their stead images inscribed with names unknown to her, or known but to be shuddered at as owned by Radicals or free-thinkers. They were men who outraged none of the social _convénances_ of life; about whose manner or behaviour no direct complaint could be made; and often she thought herself somewhat exacting when she would repeat to herself, as she would--oh, how often!--that they were not gentlemen: not her style of gentlemen; that is to say, not the style of men to whom she had been accustomed. When, for instance, would a man have dared to address his conversation to any other man in preference to her, she being present? When could a man have permitted her to open a door, or place a chair for herself, in that set amongst which she had previously moved? Respect her! Her husband's friends would ignore her presence; saying in reply to a remark from her, "Look here, Churchill, you understand this;" or would prevent her interrupting them (a favourite practice of hers) by putting up their hands and saying, "Pardon-me while I state my case," continue their argument in the most dogged manner.