“Anyone know where the latrine is?”
“The what?”
“Water closet. Powder room. Lavatory. Loo!”
My companion’s face was awash in excited discomfort.
“You mean bathroom?” I asked.
He nodded.
I pointed.
Without so much as a thank you, he rushed down the hallway like the wind.
“Amazing,” I remarked.
“What?” asked my sister.
“That, even at the height of his discomfort, he’s still a . . . what’s the word?”
“What do you mean?”
“Phillip there, just now. I know he knows the word bathroom, but he’s got to throw in a thousand words to say it, all while in agony.”
My sister looked up from her book, raising an eyebrow.
“And you?” she asked. “You don’t know the meaning of latrine?”
“Of course I do,” I said. “But I was startled, you know? I hear the word latrine and I’m trying to figure out how I ended up in one of your Edwardian affairs.”
“I’m just saying,” the book was raised again, “you were just as, whatever that word is, as Phillip just now. You’re both putting on airs. Pretending.”
“I’m not pretending,” I protested.
“Phillip pretends to be something higher than he is—” the book still hid her face, “—while you’re pretending to be something lower. It’s all pride. He’s rich, trying to be a nobleman, and you, well, we, are well bred trying to be of the people. I admit it would be much simpler if we were all what we were, but don’t judge Phillip for trying to be higher because you try to be lower.”
“It’s remarkable,” I said, putting my feet up, “that you can read that book while lecturing me about pretenses.”
Tale Told 