It amused Deborah, who grasped the situation as surely as they did, to note the bristling antipathy behind the careful politeness of their mutual regard. If it did not bristle under her immediate eye, it crawled.
"Look out for the articles of virtue," Claud had warned her earlier in the evening. "That big sailor of yours is rather like a bull in a china shop; he nearly had the carved table over just now. He doesn't know just how to judge distance in relation to his bulk. I'd like to know his fighting weight. When he plants his hoof you can feel the floor shake."
"He IS a fine figure of a man," Deb commented, with a smile.
"I can't," yawned Mr Dalzell casually, "stand a person who eats curry with a knife and fork."
"It was pretty tough, that curry. I expect he couldn't get it to pieces with a spoon."
"He did not try to."
"I never noticed. I shouldn't remember to notice a little trifle like that."
"My dear girl, it is the little trifle that marks the man."
"Oh!" said Deb. And then she sought Guthrie Carey, and brought him to sit beside her.
"That gentleman sings well," remarked Guthrie tepidly, at the conclusion of a finely rendered song. "I often wish I could do those ornamental things. Unfortunately, a man who has his work—if he sticks to it properly—gets no time to qualify. I'm afraid I shall never shine at drawing-room tricks."