“I don’t know,” said Judith quietly.
There had been a dance the night before at the Kohnthals, where Bertie’s unconcealed devotion to herself had been one of the events of the hour.
“Judith!”—Rose regarded her with excitement—“do you mean to say he has—spoken? Or are you humbugging in that serious way of yours?”
“Mr. Lee-Harrison has not proposed to me, if that is what you want to know.”
Rose unfastened her fur mantle in silence. Something in Judith’s manner puzzled her.
“He really is a nice little person,” Rose went on after a pause; “such beautiful manners!”
“Oh, he hands plates and opens doors very prettily.”
Judith spoke with a certain weary scorn, which Rose accepted as the tone of depreciation natural to a woman who discusses an undeclared admirer.
As a matter of fact, Judith recognized clearly the marks of breeding, the hundred and one fine differences which distinguished Bertie from the people of her set, whose manners were almost invariably tinged with respect of persons—that sure foe to respect of humanity. She recognized them and their value as hallmarks, wondering all the time with a dreary wonder, that any one should attach importance to such things as these.
For in her heart she despised the man. His intelligent fluency, his unfailing, monotonous politeness were a weariness to her.