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Updated: May 27, 2025
Ours is an old family, I would like to remind you that there were Marshmoretons in Belpher before the War of the Roses." "There were Bevans in Brooklyn before the B.R.T." "I beg your pardon?" "I was only pointing out that I can trace my ancestry a long way. You have to trace things a long way in Brooklyn, if you want to find them." "I have never heard of Brooklyn." "You've heard of New York?"
You'll be calling me a stage heavy father and an old snob and a number of other things. Don't interrupt me, dammit! You will, I tell you! And you'll be wrong. I don't think the Marshmoretons are fenced off from the rest of the world by some sort of divinity. My sister does. Percy does. But Percy's an ass!
He must leap into the middle of his tale with as little delay as he would employ in boarding a moving tramcar. He must get off the mark with the smooth swiftness of a jack-rabbit surprised while lunching. Otherwise, people throw him aside and go out to picture palaces. Give me time to mention these few facts and I am done. On the glorious past of the Marshmoretons I will not even touch.
Possibly there stood by his side in this crisis ghosts of dead and buried Marshmoretons, whispering spectral encouragement in his ear the ghosts, let us suppose, of that earl who, in the days of the seventh Henry, had stabbed his wife with a dagger to cure her tendency to lecture him at night; or of that other earl who, at a previous date in the annals of the family, had caused two aunts and a sister to be poisoned apparently from a mere whim.
That's what they call aristocratic rage. It's the fine old spirit of the Marshmoretons boiling over." "I noticed it," said George. "Just like lightning." "It's no use trying to fool us, dadda," said Billie. "You know just as well as I do that it makes you feel good to think that, every time you cut yourself with your safety-razor, you bleed blue!" "A lot of silly nonsense!" grumbled the earl.
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