“I was most awfully surprised. Mrs. Bailey told me. There is some Jewish girl he has been meeting in Kensington; he drew her portrait, a special one, for her father, for five guineas, and he has engaged himself to her because he thought she had money and now finds she has not damn her, he said damn her to Mrs. Bailey, and that he has been boring himself for nothing. He is going into hospital for his gastric ulcer when the season is over and then going to disappear. He told me he never spoke to a woman more than twice; but that he is willing to marry any woman with enough money.”
“Wise man.”
“He has spoken more than twice to you.”
“Yes but I know what he means. Besides we don’t talk, in the society way.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I air my theories sometimes. He always disagrees. Once he told me suddenly it was very bad for me to go about with him.”
“But you go.”
“Of course I do.” The untold scenes were standing in the way. There was no way of telling them.... Tansley Street life was more and more unreal to them the deeper it grew. It was unreal to them because things were kept back. They were still interested in stories of Wimpole Street, but even there now they only glanced in passing, their thoughts busy in the shared life they perpetually jested over. They listened with reservations; not always believing; sitting in dressing-gowns believing or not as they chose; because one knew one had lost touch and tried to make things interesting to get back into the old glow....
“How did the dinner-party go off?”
“Beautifully.”