“You enjoyed yourself last night, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Oh yes, it was rather fun. Yet, somehow, the Russian Ballet never leaves me in good spirits for the next day. It doesn’t really leave a pleasant impression somehow—an agreeable flavour.”
“One wants to see it, one is interested, from curiosity, and then, afterwards, there’s a sort of Dead Sea-fruitish, sour-grapes, autumn-leaves, sort of feeling! It’s too remote from real life and yet it hasn’t an uplifting effect. At any rate it always depresses me.”
He gave her a rather searching look, and then said:
“Did Hillier like it?”
“I think he enjoys everything. He’s always so cheery.”
“And to-night we’re dining at home?”
“Oh yes, I hope so. We’ll have a quiet evening.”
After a moment Percy said, in a slightly constrained way: