Whether the flimsiness of foreign sheets and the coarseness of their type is any proof of frivolity and ignorance, there is no doubt that English people scarce consider news read there as news, any more than a programme bought from a man in the street inspires confidence in what it says. A very respectable elderly pair, having inspected the long tables of newspapers, did not think it worth their while to read more than the headlines.
The debate on the fifteenth should have reached us by now,” Mrs. Thornbury murmured. Mr. Thornbury, who was beautifully clean and had red rubbed into his handsome worn face like traces of paint on a weather-beaten wooden figure, looked over his glasses and saw that Miss Allan had _The_ _Times_.
The couple therefore sat themselves down in arm-chairs and waited.
Ah, there’s Mr. Hewet,” said Mrs. Thornbury. “Mr. Hewet,” she continued, “do come and sit by us. I was telling my husband how much you reminded me of a dear old friend of mine–Mary Umpleby. She was a most delightful woman, I assure you. She grew roses. We used to stay with her in the old days.
No young man likes to have it said that he resembles an elderly spinster,” said Mr. Thornbury.
On the contrary,” said Mr. Hewet, “I always think it a compliment to remind visit poster’s website people of some one else. But Miss Umpleby–why did she grow roses?