England -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction; Mate selection -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
He had never risen to eminence, and only once to his feet in the Upper
House, and sometimes this rankled.
"Yes, I mean it, I mean it," said Penelope.
"And I wanted to be your bridesmaid," sobbed Ethel.
"You never will be, and you can tell every one what I say."
"I won’t," said Ethel, "I won’t."
And she went away and told them.
*CHAPTER II.*
In spite of what good conventional people said, there was nothing
abnormal in Penelope’s character. The walking world appears abnormal to
an institute for cripples; good going is an absurdity, and as for
running— The truth is that Penelope, by some unimaginable freak of
fortune, had been born quite sound and sane, barring her one lack, that
of humour. The providential death of her parents at an early age saved
her from a deal of teaching. Bradstock saved her from a great deal more,
and she saw to the rest. It pleased Augustin, Lord Bradstock, to play
with gunpowder, in spite of what he said about dynamite. He encouraged
her to trust to herself in a way that every well-regulated woman
considered highly dangerous, and he used to enrage her in order to hear
what she had to say to him. There was a period in which she swore
vigorously. She learnt her language from an old stableman, who adored
her even more than he did any horse. This was at the age of three. Her
first interview with her aunt, the Duchess of Goring, was positively so
shocking to Titania, who was mid-Victorian, and never got over it, that
the poor thing almost fainted when Penelope, a shining brat of three,
damned her eyes with terrific vigour. Goring, who was that very curious
and absurd survival of a thousand ages, known as a sportsman, roared
with laughter. There was humanity in him. There was none in Titania,
though there might have been if she had married any one but a duke. And
Penelope damned her eyes for saying she mustn’t go to the stables
without a retinue, an escort, a bodyguard of footmen and nurses and
governesses.
"I haven’t a governeth now," lisped Penelope. "I thacked the latht one,
didn’t I, Bradstock?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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