They had not much to say. Whatever interest they felt in each other was guarded, taciturn. When they talked it was in disjointed sentences on fragmentary subjects.
"You've been abroad, haven't you?"
"Yes; for the last five years."
"Do you like being back?"
The answer was doubtful. "Rather. For some things." Then, as though to explain this lack of enthusiasm, "Everybody looks alike." She qualified this by adding, "You don't."
"Neither do you," he stated, in the matter-of-fact tone which he felt to be suited to the piquantly matter-of-fact in her style.
It was a minute or two before either of them spoke again. "You've got a brother, haven't you? My father's his guardian or something."
Assenting to these statements, Claude said further, "He couldn't come to-night because he's going to be married on Thursday."
"To that Miss Willoughby, isn't it?" A jerky pause was followed by a jerky addition: "I think she's nice."
"Yes, she is; top-hole. So's my brother."