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October 15 - October 17, 2025
Gentlemen prefer blondes but personally I find them both equally seraphic.”
“You don’t need an argument for buying butter. It’s a natural, human instinct.”
“This place is run like a Government office,” went on Ingleby. “Hustle’s not wanted and initiative and curiosity are politely shown the door.”
On consideration, she thought it better not to mention that she had been mistaken for a lady of easy virtue.
being, as most clients are, better at destructive than constructive criticism,
“How on earth are they to draw a blank?” “Let ’em take a ticket in the Irish Sweep. That’ll larn ’em,” said Ingleby. “I should think it would be rather like a muchness,” suggested Bredon. “Lewis Carroll, you know. Did you ever see a drawing of a muchness?”
by forcing the damn-fool public to pay twice over—once to have its food emasculated and once to have the vitality put back again, we keep the wheels of commerce turning and give employment to thousands—including you and me.”
He grinned with a wry mouth, and went out to keep his date with the one young woman who showed no signs of yielding to him, and what he said or did on that occasion is in no way related to this story.
The thin tune began again. Tom, Tom the piper’s son— She sat up. “The terror induced by forests and darkness,” said a mocking voice from somewhere over her head, “was called by the Ancients, Panic fear, or the fear of the great god Pan. It is interesting to observe that modern progress has not altogether succeeded in banishing it from ill-disciplined minds.”
“Well, what are you doing it for, anyway?” “To please myself—which is the only reason you would admit for doing anything.”
Miss Meteyard agreed that it was a fine day. “If only,” she added, “they wouldn’t spoil it with income-tax demands.”
“I thought you were a Socialist, Ingleby,” said Bredon. “It oughtn’t to embarrass you.” “So I am a Socialist,” said Ingleby, “but I can’t stand this stuff about Old Dumbletonians. If everybody had the same State education, these things wouldn’t happen.” “If everybody had the same face,” said Bredon, “there’d be no pretty women.”
Like all rich men, he had never before paid any attention to advertisements. He had never realized the enormous commercial importance of the comparatively poor. Not on the wealthy, who buy only what they want when they want it, was the vast superstructure of industry founded and built up, but on those who, aching for a luxury beyond their reach and for a leisure for ever denied them, could be bullied or wheedled into spending their few hardly won shillings on whatever might give them, if only for a moment, a leisured and luxurious illusion.
How much of this good fortune had been due to sheer self-confidence and the will to win, only a psychologist could say; the winnings were there, and she had no doubt at all about the reason for them.
My brother, being an English gentleman, possesses a library in all his houses, though he never opens a book.
The man or woman who can batten on the weaknesses of his fellow-creatures without sharing them is, I admit, to me a singularly disgusting object.
“Dope-runners are murderers, fifty times over. They slay hundreds of people, soul and body, besides indirectly causing all sorts of crimes among the victims.
What I say is, if a man does one ungentlemanly thing, he’ll do another.
“How feminine she is,” said Mr. Bredon, plaintively, to the world at large. “She will let the personal element come into business.”
“What?” said Willis. “You mean, whom?” “Whom, then?” “Bredon.” “Mr. Bredon?” said Miss Parton. “What next, I wonder.” “You mean, what for? Why don’t you people say what you do mean?”
In this place, where from morning till night a staff of over a hundred people hymned the praises of thrift, virtue, harmony, eupepsia and domestic contentment, the spiritual atmosphere was clamorous with financial storm, intrigue, dissension, indigestion and marital infidelity.
Not, of course, that Brotherhoods’ had the slightest objection to trade unions as such. They had merely discovered that comfortable and well-fed people are constitutionally disinclined for united action of any sort—a fact which explains the asinine meekness of the income-tax payer.
“Well, it’s all right, Mr. Brotherhood,” said Mr. Hankin, soothingly. “At least, it’s all wrong for your side, I’m afraid.” “Our side be damned,” ejaculated Mr. Brotherhood. “I’m here to see cricket played, not tiddlywinks. I don’t care who wins or who loses, sir, provided they play the game. Now, then!”
It was a beauty. It was jam. He smote it as Saul smote the Philistines. It soared away in a splendid parabola, struck the pavilion roof with a noise like the crack of doom, rattled down the galvanized iron roofing, bounced into the enclosure where the scorers were sitting and broke a bottle of lemonade. The match was won.
They don’t pay any too well at Pym’s, and there are heaps of fellows who want to get out and find something better, but they daren’t. Pym’s is safe—they’re kind and decent, and they don’t sack you if they can help it—but you live up to your income and you simply daren’t cut loose.
