So the seven in the centre of the room assumed attitudes suitable for the discussion of love.
'Have you all chosen your characters?' asked the hostess.
'We have,' replied the seven.
'Then begin.'
'Don't all speak at once,' said Mr. Dolbiac, after a pause.
'Who is that chap?' Henry whispered.
'Mr. Dolbiac? He's a sculptor from Paris. Quite English, I believe, except for his grandmother. Intensely clever.' Mrs. Ashton Portway distilled these facts into Henry's ear, and then turned to the silent seven. 'It is rather difficult, isn't it?' she breathed encouragingly.
'Love is not for such as me,' said Mr. Dolbiac solemnly. Then he looked at his hostess, and called out in an undertone: 'I've begun.'
'The question,' said Miss Marchrose, clearing her throat, 'is, not what love is not, but what it is.'