"
"Eh?" I said.
"Oh!--Gawshery, if you like!"
"French, George," said my aunt. "But I'M not ol' Gooch. I made that face
for fun."
"It isn't only freedom from Gawshery. We got to have Style. See! Style!
Just all right and one better. That's what I call Style. We can do it,
and we will."
He mumbled his cigar and smoked for a space, leaning forward and looking
into the fire.
"What is it," he asked, "after all? What is it? Tips about eating; tips
about drinking. Clothes. How to hold yourself, and not say jes' the
few little things they know for certain are wrong--jes' the shibboleth
things."
He was silent again, and the cigar crept up from the horizontal towards
the zenith as the confidence of his mouth increased.
"Learn the whole bag of tricks in six months." he said, becoming more
cheerful. "Ah, Susan? Beat it out! George, you in particular ought to
get hold of it. Ought to get into a good club, and all that."
"Always ready to learn!" I said. "Ever since you gave me the chance of
Latin. So far we don't seem to have hit upon any Latin-speaking stratum
in the population.
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