“So that’s your latest, is it, Hermia?”
The remark was inconsequent, in that it came on top of nothing at all. The time was the cool of the evening, and Blachland, lying back in a deep cane chair, was lazily puffing out clouds of smoke. He had not been talking much, and what little he had said consisted of a few drowsy remarks about nothing in particular. Now, after an interval of silence, came the above inconsequent one.
“My latest! Who and what on earth are you talking about, Hilary?”
“Merely Spence.”
“Oh, is that all? He’s such a nice boy, though, isn’t he?”
“Candidly, he’s only like thirty-nine out of forty, colourless.”
“How can you say that, Hilary? Why, he’s awfully handsome.”
“Oh, I wasn’t referring to externals, I mean the more important side of him; and—there’s nothing in him.”
Hermia made no reply, she only smiled; but the smile was meant to convey that she knew better. Nothing in him! Wasn’t there? If Hilary only knew?
Truth to tell, however, she was a little relieved. This was the first reference he had made to the subject, and his silence all these hours had rendered her uneasy. What if he suspected? Now he seemed to drop it as though it were not worth pursuing. She, however, paradoxically enough, intended to let him know that it was. Could she not make him just one atom jealous?