“There is nothing so fickle as a virtuous impulse,” Sylvia declared to herself. “It’s a kind of moral usury which is always looking for a return on the investment. The moment the object fails to pay an exorbitant interest in gratitude, the impulse to speculate withers up. The lowest circle in hell should be reserved for people who try to help others and cannot understand why their kindness is not appreciated. Really that was Philip’s trouble. He never got over being hurt that I didn’t perpetually remind him of his splendid behavior toward me. I suppose I’m damned inhuman. Well, well, I couldn’t have stood those three months after I left him if I hadn’t been.”
The affair between Lily and Claude Raglan was not much discussed. He had, it seemed, only left her because his career was at stake; he had received a good offer and she had not wished to detain him.
“But is it over between you?” Sylvia demanded.
“Yes, of course, it’s over—at any rate, for a long time to come,” Lily answered. “He cried when he left me. He really was a nice boy. If he lives, he thinks he will be a success—a real success. He introduced me to a lot of nice boys.”
“That was rash of him,” Sylvia laughed. “Were they as nice as the lodgings he introduced you to?”
“No, don’t laugh at him. He couldn’t afford anything else.”
“But why in Heaven’s name, if you wanted to play around together, had you got to leave Finborough Road?”
Lily blushed faintly. “You won’t be angry if I tell you?”
Sylvia shook her head.
“Claude said he couldn’t bear the idea that you were looking at us. He said it spoiled everything.”