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Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life
more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony
known as afternoon tea. Th ere are circumstances in
which, whe ther you p artake of the tea or not?some
people of course never do?the situation is in itself
delightful. Those that I have in mind in beginning to
unfold this simple histor y offered an admirable setting to
an innocent pastime. The impleme nts of the little feast had
been disposed upon the lawn of an old English country-
house, in what I should call the perfect middle of a
splendid summer afternoon. Part of the afternoon had
waned, but much of it was left, and what was left was of
the finest an d rarest quality. Real dusk would n ot arrive
for many hours; but the fl ood of summer light had begun
to ebb, the air had grown me llow, the shadows were long
upon the smooth, dense turf. They lengthened slowly,
however, an d the scene expresse d that sense of leisure still
to come w hich is perhaps the chief source of one?s
enjoyment of such a scene at such an hour. From five
o?clock to eight is on certain occasions a little eternity; but
on su ch a n occa sion a s this the inte rval could b e only an
eternity of pleasure. The pers ons concerned in it were
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taking their pleasure quietly, and they were not of the sex
which is supposed to furnish the regular votaries of the
ceremony I have mentioned. Th e shadows on the perfect
lawn were s traight and angular; they were the shadows of
an old man sitting in a deep wicker-chair near the low
table on w hich the te a had been served, and of two
younger men strolling to and fro, in desultory talk, in front
of him. The old man had his cup in his hand; it was an
unusually large cup, of a different pa ttern from the rest of
the set and painted in brilliant colours. He disposed of its
contents with much circumspe ction, holding it for a long
time clo se to his chin, with hi s fa ce turned to the hou se.
His compa nions had either finished their tea or were
indifferent to their priv ilege; they smoked cigarettes as
they continued to stroll. One of them, from time to time,
as he passed, looked wit h a certain attention at the elder
man, who, unconsci ous of obs ervation, rested his eyes
upon the rich red front of his dwel ling. The house tha t
rose beyond the lawn was a structure to repay such
consideratio n and wa s the most ch aracteristic ob ject in the
peculiarly English pictur e I have attempted to sk etch.
It stood upon a low hill, above t he river?the river
being the Thames at so me forty mi les from London. A
long gabled front of red brick, with the complexion of
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which time and the weather had played all sorts of
pictorial tricks, only, however, to improve and refine it,
presented t o the lawn its patches of ivy, its clustered
chimneys, its windows smot hered in creep ers. T he house
had a name and a history; the old gentleman taki ng his tea
would have been delight ed to tell you these things: how it
had been b uilt under Edward the Sixth, had offered a
night?s hosp itality to th e g reat Elizabeth (whose august
person had extended itself upon a huge, magnificent, and
terribly angular bed which still formed the principal
honour of the sleeping apartments) , had been a good deal
bruised and defaced in Cromwell?s wars, and then, under
the Restoration, repaired and much enlarged; and how,
finally, after having been remodelled and disfigur ed in the
eighteenth century, it had passed into the careful keeping
of a shrewd American banker, who had bought i t
originally because (o wing to circumsta nces too
complicated to set forth) it wa s offered at a great bargain:
bought it with much grum bling at its ugliness, its
antiquity, its incommodity, and who now, at the end of
twenty years, had beco me consci ous of a real aesthetic
passion for it, so that he knew all its points and would tell
you just where to stand to see them in combination and
just the hour when the shad ows of its various
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protuberances?which fell so softly upon the warm, weary
brickwork?were of the right meas ure. Besides this, as I
have said, he could have counted off most of the
successive owners and occupants, several of whom were
known to general fame; doing so, however, with an
undemonstrative conviction that the latest phase of its
destiny was not the least honourable. The front of the
house overlooking that portion of the lawn with which
we are concerned was not the entrance-front; this was in
quite another quarter. Privac y here reigned supreme, and
the wide carpet of turf that covered the level hill-top
seemed but the extension of a luxurious inte rior. The
great still oaks and beeches flung down a shade as dense as
that of velvet curtains; and the place was furnished, like a
room, with cushioned seats, wi th rich-coloured rugs, with
the books and papers that lay upon the grass. The river
was at some distance; where the ground began to slope,
the lawn, properly speaking, ceased. But it was none the
less a charming walk down to the water.
The old gentleman at the tea-tabl e, who had come
from America thirty years before, had brought with him,
at the top of his baggage, his American physiognomy; and
he had not only brought it with him, but he had kept it in
the best order, so that, if necessary, he might have taken it
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back to his own country with perfect confid ence. At
present, obviously, nevertheless, he was not likely to
displace himself; his journeys were over, and he was taking
the rest that precedes the great res t. He had a narrow,
clean-shaven face, with features evenly distributed and an
expression of placid acuteness. It was evidently a face in
which the r ange of representation was not l arge, so that
the air of contented sh rewdness was all the more of a
merit. It seemed to tell that he had b een successf ul in life,
yet it seemed to tell also t hat his success had not been
exclusive and invidious, but had had much of the
inoffensiveness of failur e. He had certainly had a great
experi ence of men, but there w as an almost rustic
simplicity in the faint smile that played upon his lean,
spacious che ek and lighted up his humorous eye as he at
last slowly and carefully deposited his big tea-cup upon the
table. He was neatly dressed, in well-brushed black; but a
shawl was folded upon his knees, and his feet were
encased in thick, embroidered slipp ers. A beautiful collie
dog lay upon the grass near his chair, watching the
master?s f ace almost a s tenderly as the master to ok in the
still more magisterial physiognomy of the house; and a
little bristling, bustling terrier bestowed a desultory
attendance upon the other gentlemen.
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One of these was a remarkably well-made man of five-
and-thirty, with a face as En glish as that of the old
gentleman I have just sketched was somethin g else; a
noticeably handsome face, fresh-coloured, fair and frank,
with firm, straight featur es, a lively grey ey e and the rich
adornment of a chestnut bear d. Thi s person had a certain
fortunate, b rilliant exceptional look ?the air of a happy
temperament fertilized by a high civilization?which
would have made almost any ob server envy him at a
venture. He was booted and spurred, as if he had
dismounted from a l ong ride ; he wore a white hat, which
looked too large for him; he held his two hands behind
him, and in one of th em?a large, white, well-shaped
fist?was crumpled a pair of soiled dog-skin gloves.
His compa nion, mea suring the l ength of th e lawn
beside him, was a person of quite a d ifferent pattern, who,
although he might have excited grave curiosity, would
not, like the other, have provoked you to wish yourself,
almost blindly, in his place. Tall, le an, loosely and feebly
put together, he had an ugly, sickly, witty, charming face,
furnished, but by no means decorated, with a straggling
moustache and whiske r. He looked clever a nd ill?a
combination by no means felic itous; and he wore a brown
velvet jacket. He carried his hands in his pockets, and
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there was something in the way he did it that showed the
habit was inveterate. His gait had a shambling, wandering
quality; he was not very firm on his legs. As I have said,
whenever h e passed the old man in the chair he rested his
eyes upon him; and at this mome nt, with their faces
brought into relation, you would easily have seen they
were father and son. The father ca ught his son?s eye at last
and gave him a mild, responsive smile.
?I?m getting on very well,? he said.
?Have you drunk your tea?? asked the son.
?Yes, and en joyed it.?
?Shall I give you some more??
The old man considered, placidly. ?Well, I gu ess I?ll
wait and see.? He had, in speaking, the American tone.
?Are you cold?? the son enquired.
The father slowly rubbed his legs. ?Well, I don?t know.
I can?t tell till I feel.?
?Perhaps some one might feel for you,? said the
younger man, laughing.
?Oh, I hope some one will always feel for me! Don?t
you feel for me, Lord Warburton??
?Oh yes, immensely,? said th e gentl eman addressed as
Lord Warburton, promptly. ?I?m bound to say you look
wonderfully comfortable.?
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?Well, I suppose I am, i n most resp ects.? And the old
man looked down at his green shawl and smoothed it over
his knees. ?The fact is I?ve been comf ortable so many years
that I suppose I?v e got so used to it I don?t know it.?
?Yes, that? s the bore of comfor t,? said Lord Warburton.
?We only kn ow when we?re uncomfortable.?
?It strikes me we?re rat her particul ar,? his companion
remarked.
?Oh yes, there?s no doubt we?re particular,? Lord
Warburton murmured. And then the three men remained
silent a while; the two younger ones standing looking
down at the other, who presently as ked for more tea. ?I
should think you would be very unhappy with that shawl, ?
Lord Warburton resumed while his companion filled the
old man?s cup again.
?Oh no, he must have the shawl!? cried the gen tleman
in the velvet coa t. ?Do n?t put su ch ideas as tha t into his
head.?
?It belongs to my wife,? said the old man simply.
?Oh, if it? s for senti mental reasons-? And Lord
Warburton made a gesture of apology.
?I suppose I must give it to her when she comes,? th e
old man went on.
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?You?ll please to do nothing of the kind. You?ll keep it
to cover your poor old legs.?
?Well, you mustn?t abuse my legs,? said the old man. ?I
guess they are as good as yours.?
?Oh, you?re perfectly free to abuse mine,? his son
replied, giving him his tea.
?Well, we?re two lame ducks; I don?t think there?s
much difference.?
?I?m much obliged to you for calling me a duck. How?s
your tea??
?Well, it?s ra ther hot.?
?That?s intended to be a merit.?
?Ah, there?s a great deal of merit,? murmured the old
man, kindly. ?He?s a very good nurse, Lord Warburton.?
?Isn?t he a bit clumsy?? asked his lordship.
?Oh no, he?s not cl umsy?consider ing that he ?s an
invalid himself. He?s a very good nu rse?for a sick-nurse. I
call him my sick-nurse b ecause he?s sick himself.?
?Oh, come, daddy!? the ugly young man exclaimed.
?Well, you are; I wish you weren?t. But I suppose you
can?t help it.?
?I might try: that? s an idea,? said the young man.
?Were you ever sick, Lord Warburton?? his father
asked.
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Lord Warburton conside red a moment. ?Yes, sir, once,
in the Persian Gulf.?
He?s making light of you, daddy,? sai d the other young
man. ?That?s a sort of joke.?
?Well, there seem to be so many sorts now,? daddy
replied, serenely. ?You don?t look as if you had been sick,
any way, Lord Warburto n.?
?He?s sick of life; he was just telling me so; going on
fearfully about it,? said Lord Warburt on?s friend.
?Is that true, sir?? asked the old man gravely.
?If it is, your son gave me no consolation. He?s a
wretched fellow to talk to?a regular cynic. He doesn? t
seem to believe in anything.?
?That? s another sort of joke,? said the person accused of
cynicism.
?It?s because his health is so poor,? his father explained
to Lord Warburton. ?It affects his mind and colours hi s
way of looking at thing s; he seems to feel as if he had
never had a chance. But it?s almost entirely theoretical,
you know; i t doesn? t see m to affect his spirits. I? ve hardly
ever seen him when he wasn?t cheerful?about as he i s at
present. He often cheers me up.?
The young man so described looked at Lord
Warburton and laughed. ?Is it a gl owing eulogy or an
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accusation of levity? Sho uld you like me to carry out my
theories, daddy??
?By Jove, we should see some queer things!? cried Lord
Warburton.
?I hope you haven?t take n up that sor t of tone,? said the
old man.
?Warburton?s tone is worse than mi ne; he pretends to
be bored. I?m not in the least bored; I find life only too
interesting.?
?Ah, too interesting; you shou ldn?t allow it to be that,
you know!?
?I?m never bored wh en I come here,? said Lord
Warburton. ?One gets such uncommonly good talk.?
?Is that another sort of joke?? ask ed the old man.
?You?ve no excuse for being bored anywhere. W hen I was
your age I had never he ard of such a thing.?
?You must have developed very late.?
?No, I developed very quick; that was just the reason.
When I was twenty year s old I was very highly developed
indeed. I was working tooth and nail. You wouldn?t be
bored if you had something to d o; b ut all you y oung men
are too idle. You think too much of your pleasure. You?re
too fastidious, and too indolent, and too rich.?
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?Oh, I say,? cried Lord Wa rburton, ?you?re hardly the
person to accuse a fellow-creature of being too rich!?
?Do you mean because I?m a b ank er?? asked the old
man.
?Because of that, if you like ; and because you have?
haven?t you?- such unlimited means.?
?He isn?t very rich,? the ot her young man mercifully
pleaded. ?He has given away an immense deal of money.?
?Well, I suppose it was his ow n,? said Lord Warburton;
?and in that case could there b e a b etter proof of wealth?
Let not a public benefactor ta lk of one?s being too fond of
pleasure.?
?Daddy?s very fond of pleasure?of other people?s.?
The old man shook his head. ?I don?t pretend t o have
contributed anything to the amusement of my
contemporaries.?
?My dear father, you?re t oo modest!?
?That?s a kind of joke, sir,? said Lord Warburton.
?You young men have too many jokes. When there are
no jokes you?ve nothing left.?
?Fortunately there are always mor e jokes,? the ugly
young man remarked.
?I don?t believe it?I believe things are getting more
serious. You young men will find that out.?
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?The increasing seriousness of things, then?that?s the
great opportunity of jokes.?
?They?ll have to be grim jokes,? said the old man. ?I?m
convinced there will be great changes; and not all for the
better.?
?I quite agree with you, sir ,? Lord Warburton declared.
?I?m very sure there will be great changes, and that all sorts
of queer things will happen. That?s why I find so much
difficulty in applying your advice; you know you told me
the other day that I ought to ?take hold? of something.
One hesitates to take h old of a thi ng tha t may the nex t
moment be knocked sky-high.?
?You ought to take hol d of a pretty woman,? said his
compani on. ?He?s trying hard to fall in love,? he added, by
way of expla nation, to his father.
?The pretty women th emselv es may be sent flying!?
Lord Warburton exclaimed.
?No, no, they?ll be firm,? the old man rejoined; ?they?ll
not be affected by the social and p olitical changes I just
referred to.?
?You mean they won?t be abo lished? Very well, then,
I?ll lay my hands on one as soon as possible and tie her
round my neck as a life-preserver.?
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?The ladies will save us,? said the old man; ?that is the
best of them will?for I make a difference between them.
Make up to a good one and marry her, and yo ur life will
become much more interesting.?
A momentary silence marked perhaps on the part of hi s
auditors a se nse of the magnanimi ty of this speech, for it
was a secret neither for his s on nor for his visitor that his
own experiment in matrimony had not been a happy one.
As he said, however, he made a difference; and these
words may have been intended as a confessi on of personal
error; though of course it was not in place for either of his
compani ons to remark that appar ently the lady of his
choice had not been one of the best.
?If I marry an interesting woman I shall be interested: is
that what y ou say?? Lor d Warburton asked. ?I?m not at all
keen about marrying- your son misrepresented me; bu t
there?s no knowing what an interesting woman might do
with me.?
?I should lik e to see your idea of an i nteresting woman, ?
said his friend.
?My dear fellow, you can?t see ideas?especially such
highly ethereal ones as mine. If I c ould only see myself?
that would b e a great step in advance.?
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?Well, you may fall in love with whomsoever you
please; but you mustn?t fall in love with my niece,? said
the old man.
His son broke into a laugh. ?He?ll think you mean that
as a provocation! My d ear father, you?ve lived with the
English for thirty years, and you?ve picked up a good
many of the things they say. But you?ve never lea rned the
things they don?t say!?
?I say what I please,? the old man returned with all his
serenity.
?I haven?t the honour of knowing your niece,? Lord
Warburton said. ?I think it?s the first time I?ve heard of
her.?
?She?s a niece of my wife?s; Mr s. To uchett brings her to
England.?
Then young Mr. Touchett explained. ?My mother, you
know, has been spending the winter in Ame rica, and
we’re expecting her bac k. She writes that she has
discovered a niece and that she has invited her to come
out with her.?
?I see?very kind of her,? said Lord Warburton. ?Is the
young lady i nteresting??
?We hardly know more about her than you; my
mother ha s no t go ne into details. Sh e chiefly
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communica tes with us by means of telegrams, and her
telegrams are rather inscrutable. Th ey say women don?t
know how to write them, but my mother has thoroughly
mastered the art of condensation. ?Tired America, hot
weather awful, return England with niece, first steamer
decent cabin.? That?s the so rt o f message we get fro m
her?that was the last that came. But there had been
another before, which I think contai ned the first mention
of the niece. ?Changed hotel, very bad, impudent clerk,
address here. Taken sister?s girl, died last year, go to
Europe, two sisters, quite in dependent.? Over that my
father and I have scarcely stopped puzzling; it seems to
admit of so many interpretations.?
?There?s one thing very clea r in it,? said the old man;
?she has given the hotel-clerk a dressing.?
?I?m not sure even of that, si nce he has driven her from
the field. We thought at first that the sister mentioned
might be the sister of the clerk; but the subsequent
mention of a niece seems to prove that the all usion i s to
one of my aunts. There there wa s a question as to whose
the two other sisters were; they are probably two of my
late aunt?s d aughters. But w ho?s ?quite independent,? and
in what se nse is the term used??that poin t?s n ot yet
settled. Does the expression apply more particularly to the
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young lady my mother has ad opte d, or does i t characterize
her sisters equally??and is it used in a moral or in a
financial sense? Does it mean that they?ve been left well
off, or that they wish to be under no obligations? or does
it simply mean that they? re fond of their own way??
?Whatever else it means, it?s pretty sure to mean tha t,?
Mr. Touche tt remarked.
?You?ll see f or yourself,? said Lord Warburton. ?When
does Mrs. Touchett arrive??
?We?re quite in the dark; as soon as she can find a
decent cabin. She may be waiting for it yet; on the other
hand she may already have disembarked in Engla nd.?
?In that case she would pr obably have telegraphed to
you.?
?She never t elegraphs when you would expect it?only
when you don?t,? said the old man. ?She likes t o drop in
on me suddenly; she thinks she?ll find me doing something
wrong. She has never done so yet, but she?s no t
discouraged.?
?It?s her shar e in the fa mily trait, the independence she
speaks of.? Her son?s appreciation of the matter was more
favourable. ?Whatever the high spirit of those young ladie s
may be, her own is a match for it. She likes to do
everything for herself and has no beli ef in any one?s power
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to help her. She thinks me of no more use than a postage-
stamp wi tho ut gum, a nd she would never forgive me if I
should presume to go to Liverpool to meet her.?
?Will you at least let me k now when your cousin
arrives?? Lord Warburton asked.
?Only on the condition I?ve mentioned?that you
don?t fall in love with her!? Mr. Touchett replied.
?That strikes me as hard. Don?t you think me good
enough??
?I think you too good?becaus e I shouldn?t like her to
marry you. She hasn?t come here to look for a husband, I
hope; so many young ladies are doin g that, as if there w ere
no good ones at home. Then she?s probably engaged;
American girls are usually engaged, I b eliev e. Moreover
I?m not sure, after all, that you?d be a remarkable
husband.?
?Very lik ely she?s engaged; I?ve kn own a good many
American girls, and they always were; but I could never
see that it made any difference, upon my word! As for my
being a good husband,? Mr. Tou chett?s visi tor pursued,
?I?m not sure of that either. One can but try!?
?Try as much as you please, but do n?t try on my niece,?
smiled the old man, whose opposition to the idea was
broadly humorous.
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?Ah, well,? said Lord Warburton with a humour
broader still, ?perhaps after all, she?s n ot worth trying on!?
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