"Archer,"saidMrs.Flanderswiththattendernesswhichmotherssooftendisplaytowardstheireldestsons,"willbeatGibraltarto-morrow."
Thepostforwhichshewaswaiting(strollingupDodsHillwhiletherandomchurchbellsswungahymntuneaboutherhead,theclockstrikingfourstraightthroughthecirclingnotestheglasspurplingunderastorm-cloudandthetwodozenhousesofthevillagecowering,infinitelyhumble,incompanyunderaleafofshadow),thepost,withallitsvarietyofmessages,envelopesaddressedinboldhands,inslantinghands,stampednowwithEnglishstamps,againwithColonialstamps,orsometimeshastilydabbedwithayellowbar,thepostwasabouttoscatteramyriadmessagesovertheworld.Whetherwegainornotbythishabitofprofusecommunicationitisnotforustosay.Butthatletter-writingispractisedmendaciouslynowadays,particularlybyyoungmentravellinginforeignparts,seemslikelyenough.
Forexample,takethisscene.
HerewasJacobFlandersgoneabroadandstayingtobreakhisjourneyinParis.(OldMissBirkbeck,hismother'scousin,haddiedlastJuneandlefthimahundredpounds.)
"Youneedn'trepeatthewholedamnedthingoveragain,Cruttendon,"saidMallinson,thelittlebaldpainterwhowassittingatamarbletable,splashedwithcoffeeandringedwithwine,talkingveryfast,andundoubtedlymorethanalittledrunk.
"Well,Flanders,finishedwritingtoyourlady?"saidCruttendon,asJacobcameandtookhisseatbesidethem,holdinginhishandanenvelopeaddressedtoMrs.Flanders,nearScarborough,England.
"DoyouupholdVelasquez?"saidCruttendon.
"ByGod,hedoes,"saidMallinson.
"Healwaysgetslikethis,"saidCruttendonirritably.
JacoblookedatMallinsonwithexcessivecomposure.
"I'lltellyouthethreegreatestthingsthatwereeverwritteninthewholeofliterature,"Cruttendonburstout."'Hangtherelikefruitmysoul.'"hebegan….
"Don'tlistentoamanwhodon'tlikeVelasquez,"saidMallinson.
"Adolphe,don'tgiveMr.Mallinsonanymorewine,