"How well you know what to say about things! Weird! Delightful! I dare say that's what Rivers would expect a nice girl to say of his books. He spends half his time being afraid people should think his work is lurid, and the rest in being simply terrified that people should think it's not. He's very clever really, and a delightful companion."
"Is he cynical?" she asked.
"He's so sceptical, that he believes in everything, but especially hard work, like table-turning, crystal-gazing, and Sandow's exercises.... I was at Oxford with him, you know," Frank added explanatorily.
"I see, it's an old affection. Anybody else I'm not to speak to?"
"Nonsense, Sylvia; I want you to be charming to every one, of course. I believe in that sort of thing. It's the right atmosphere for a party. Don't think about me."
"How can I help it?"
Her grey eyes were reproachful.
Woodville looked into them, then abruptly looked away.
"What are you going to wear, Sylvia?"
"My white satin, I think. Do you like it? Or don't you?"