Phyllis, on her part, had been aware of the brief but intense gaze which the grey eyes had cast upon her from the other side of the room.
"Who is that person talking to my sister?" she said.
Darrell looked across coldly, and answered: "Oh, that's Lord Watergate, the great physiologist."
"I have never met a lord before."
"And, after all, this isn't much of a lord, because the peer is quite swallowed up in the man of science."
Oakley came up, entreating Darrell to sing.
"But isn't it quite irregular, to-day?"
"Oh, we don't pretend to be fashionable. This isn't 'Show Sunday,' pure and simple, but just a pretext for seeing one's friends."
"By the by," said the artist, as Oakley went off to open the little piano, "is it any good my sending the sketches this week? though it's horribly bad form to talk shop."
"You must ask my sister about those things."