"Well?" said Ora irritably.
"That's the sort to marry," said Babba, and put his cigarette in his mouth with a final air.
"Ask her, then," said Ora, with an uncomfortable laugh.
"I think I see myself!" smiled Babba. "How should we mix?"
Ora rose from the sofa and walked restlessly to the window. Her satisfaction with the world was shadowed. She decided to tell Babba nothing of what Alice Muddock, nothing of what Irene Kilnorton, had said to her. For, strange as it seemed, Babba would understand, not ridicule, appreciate, not deride, be nearer endorsing than resenting. He would not see narrow, ignorant, uncharitable prejudice; it appeared that he would recognise some natural inevitable difference, having its outcome in disapproval and aloofness. Was there this gulf? Was Babba right in sitting down resignedly on the other side of it? Her thoughts flew off to Ashley Mead. On which side of the gulf was he? And if on the other than that occupied by "our sort," would he cross the gulf? How would he cross it?
"Well, you'll bear the matter of the play in mind," said Babba, rising and flinging away his cigarette.
"Oh, don't bother me about plays now," cried Ora impatiently.
Babba stood hat in hand, regarding her critically. He saw that she was disturbed; he did not perceive why she should be. The change of mood was a vagary to be put up with, not accounted for; there was need of Mr. Hazlewood's philosophy. He fell back on raillery.
"Cheer up," he said. "He'll turn up some day."