human
Max Elliot seems quite afraid of me, she said at last.
gpt
Am I so very vulgar?
human
Not more so than most intelligent young women who are rather 'in it' in London,
gpt
Surely I'm not a climber, without knowing it!
human
No, I don't think so. But your peculiar terror of mixing with the crowd naturally makes you struggle a little, and puff and blow in the effort to keep your head above water.
gpt
How very awful! I don't know why it is, but your head always is well above water without your making any effort.
human
I don't bother as to whether it is or not, you see.
gpt
No. But what has it all to do with this Mr. Heath?
human
Perhaps we shall find out to-morrow night. Max may think you'll be inclined to rave about him.
gpt
Rave about a cropped head that composes away from the piano!
human
Ah, that Brighton tradition!
gpt
Mrs. Mansfield's father had been a highly intelligent, cultivated, charming and well-off man, who had had a place in the Isle of Wight, and been an intimate friend of Tennyson, and of most of the big men of his day. Her mother had possessed the peculiar and rather fragile kind of beauty which seems to attract great English painters, and had been much admired and beloved in Melbury Road, Holland Park, and elsewhere. She, too, had been intelligent, intellectual and very musical. From Frederick Leighton's little parties, where Joachim or Norman Neruda played to a chosen few, the beautiful Mrs. Mortimer and her delightful husband were seldom missing. They were prominent members of that sort of family party which made the
human
Monday Pops for years a social as well as an artistic function. And their small, but exquisite house in Berkeley Square, now inherited by their daughter, was famous for its