Her aunt did not object to capital punishment or war, or the industrial system or casual wards, or flogging of criminals or the Congo Free State, because none of these things really got hold of her imagination; but she did object, she did not like, she could not bear to think of people not having and enjoying their meals. Not for me. She felt draggled and insulted beyond redemption. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. “My friend,” she said, “no! Let me tell you this. ‘Here you, Pottiswick. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered.
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