“You see a good deal of the Thornhills, don’t you, Elvesdon?” said the doctor, changing the subject.
“Yes. I like them too. It’s a jolly lucky thing, I reckon, to find a man like Thornhill at one’s elbow in a place like this. He’s such a rational, level-headed chap—cultured too, and rattling good company.”
“And the girl—what do you think of her?”
“She’s charming—so unconventional, and high bred to the finger tips, as the French say, or, to put it literally, ‘to the ends of the nails.’ I don’t mind telling you, Vine, that she’s clean outside my experience.”
The older man smiled queerly.
“Yes. She’s a nice girl,” he said, “but—peculiar.”
Now Elvesdon had just reached that stage with regard to Edala that this damning of her with faint praise rather jarred upon him.
“Well but—isn’t she?” he retorted, unwittingly sharply. “Nice—I mean.”
“I said so,” answered the other.
Still Elvesdon was not satisfied. There was something infernally, provokingly, shut-up-like-an-oyster about the tone. He felt moved to ‘draw’ the utterer.