What's wrong with my house?
LADY UTTERWORD. Just what is wrong with a ship, papa. Wasn't it
clever of Hastings to see that?
CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. The man's a fool. There's nothing wrong with a
ship.
LADY UTTERWORD. Yes, there is.
MRS HUSHABYE. But what is it? Don't be aggravating, Addy.
LADY UTTERWORD. Guess.
HECTOR. Demons. Daughters of the witch of Zanzibar. Demons.
LADY UTTERWORD. Not a bit. I assure you, all this house needs to
make it a sensible, healthy, pleasant house, with good appetites
and sound sleep in it, is horses.
MRS HUSHABYE. Horses! What rubbish!
LADY UTTERWORD. Yes: horses. Why have we never been able to let
this house? Because there are no proper stables. Go anywhere in
England where there are natural, wholesome, contented, and really
nice English people; and what do you always find? That the
stables are the real centre of the household; and that if any
visitor wants to play the piano the whole room has to be upset
before it can be opened, there are so many things piled on it. I
never lived until I learned to ride; and I shall never ride
really well because I didn't begin as a child. There are only two
classes in good society in England: the equestrian classes and
the neurotic classes. It isn't mere convention: everybody can see
that the people who hunt are the right people and the people who
don't are the wrong ones.
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