I remember," she broke off, "an Aunt
of mine who lived at Dulwich and kept cactuses. You reached the conservatory through
the double drawing-room, and there, on the hot pipes, were dozens of them,
ugly, squat, bristly little plants each in a separate pot. Once in a hundred
years the Aloe flowered, so my Aunt said. But she died before that
happened--" We told her to keep to the point. "Well," she resumed,
"when Professor Hobkin was out, I examined his life work, an edition of
Sappho. It's a queer looking book, six or seven inches thick, not all by
Sappho. Oh, no. Most of it is a defence of Sappho's chastity, which some German
had denied, add I can assure you the passion with which these two gentlemen
argued, the learning they displayed, the prodigious ingenuity with which they
disputed the use of some implement which looked to me for all the world like a
hairpin astounded me; especially when the door opened and Professor Hobkin
himself appeared. A very nice, mild, old gentleman, but what could he know
about chastity?" We misunderstood her.
"No, no," she protested, "he's
the soul of honour I'm sure. . . . I was thinking rather of my Aunt's cactuses.
What could they know about chastity?"
“A Society”
(CSF 128)
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