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terfere with the immensely important speculations of these
highly-mental gentlemen. But she had to be there. They
didn’t get on so well without her; their ideas didn’t flow so
freely. Clifford was much more hedgy and nervous, he got
cold feet much quicker in Connie’s absence, and the talk
didn’t run. Tommy Dukes came off best; he was a little in-
spired by her presence. Hammond she didn’t really like; he
seemed so selfish in a mental way. And Charles May, though
she liked something about him, seemed a little distasteful
and messy, in spite of his stars.
How many evenings had Connie sat and listened to the
manifestations of these four men! these, and one or two oth-
ers. That they never seemed to get anywhere didn’t trouble
her deeply. She liked to hear what they had to say, especially
when Tommy was there. It was fun. Instead of men kissing
you, and touching you with their bodies, they revealed their
minds to you. It was great fun! But what cold minds!
And also it was a little irritating. She had more respect
for Michaelis, on whose name they all poured such wither-
ing contempt, as a little mongrel arriviste, and uneducated
bounder of the worst sort. Mongrel and bounder or not,
he jumped to his own conclusions. He didn’t merely walk
round them with millions of words, in the parade of the life
of the mind.
Connie quite liked the life of the mind, and got a great
thrill out of it. But she did think it overdid itself a little. She
loved being there, amidst the tobacco smoke of those fa-
mous evenings of the cronies, as she called them privately to
herself. She was infinitely amused, and proud too, that even