“I should call them profane in a woman, and worse. I should call them vulgar.” “Really!” “Shouldn’t you?” “Ah, I don’t know. I don’t call things. What’s the use?” “But you must have opinions.” “Lots of ’em--lots of ’em--a new set every day. It’s a good idea to look at everything from all sorts of directions, don’t you think?” “If one has no sense of responsibility. But I know you have. One of the characteristics I particularly admire in the English upper class is their sense of responsibility. I think it splendid, the way they support the Church, and so set an example to the lower classes.” “I don’t go in for that yet--I stop in bed. It’s not expected of one until he’s head of a family. When I am, of course I’ll tuck my book under my arm and toddle away on Sunday morning to do my duty. I think it’s rather funny, don’t you? We do as we jolly please all week and then on Sunday, when there’s nothing naughty going on, anyhow, we do our duty. Cleverest thing in the British Constitution, that!” “But you believe in your--your church, don’t you?” “Believe? To be sure. Everyone does, except ghastly middle-class cranks. Some of ’em go crazy and are pious every day. Others go crazy and chuck it all. They run to extremes--that’s bad form. I don’t like extremes.” Mrs. Sullivan looked at Frothingham suspiciously. His face was always serious, but the eyeglass and the drawl and the shadow of a hint of irony in his tone raised a doubt. She returned to her original question: “They tell me that the women--the fashionable women--swear a great deal in New York now--that it’s the latest fad.” “I can’t say that they ever swore at me--much,” replied Frothingham. “But then, you know, I’m rather meek. It’s possible they might if I’d baited ’em.” “A few of our women here--those that hang round horses and stables all the time--have taken up swearing. It is said that they contracted the habit in New York and Newport. But I doubted it.” “Perhaps it’s the horses that make ’em swear,” suggested Frothingham. “Horses are such stupid brutes.” “And they smoke--but that’s an old story. All the women smoke in New York, don’t they?” “I’m not observant. You see, I don’t see well unless I look sharp.” Mrs. Sullivan smiled amiably. “You’re very discreet, Lord Frothingham. You don’t gossip--I detest it myself.”