'Life is about six times as expensive as it was in your grandmother's
time.' said Lady Kirkbank, as the carriage rolled softly along the
shabby road between Knightsbridge and Fulham. 'It is the pace that
kills. Society, which used to jog along comfortably, like the old
Brighton stage, at ten miles an hour, now goes as fast as the Brighton
express. In my mother's time poor Lord Byron was held up to the
execration of respectable people as the type of cynical profligacy; in
my own time people talked about Lord Waterford; but, my dear, the young
men now are all Byrons and Waterfords, without the genius of the one or
the generosity of the other. We are all going at steeplechase rate.
Social success without money is impossible. The rich Americans, the
successful Jews, will crowd us out unless we keep pace with them. Ah,
Lesbia, my dear girl, there would be a great future before you if you
could only make up your mind to accept Mr. Smithson.'
'How do you know that he means to propose to me?' asked Lesbia,
mockingly. 'Perhaps he is only going to behave as he did to Miss
Trinder.
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