Grandpapa had said that long stories about oneself always bored other people, whether or no they politely affected an appearance of interest.
No doubt it was true.
Lydia knew that she herself was not apt to take any very real interest, for instance, in Nathalie Palmer’s long letters about her home, and the parish, and the new experiment of keeping hens at the vicarage, nor in the many stories, all of them personal, told by the girls at Elena’s, nor even in the monotonous recital of Miss Nettleship’s difficulties with her servants.
Why should the Greek be interested in hearing Lydia’s opinion of Lydia?
She cynically determined that it would not be worth while to put him to the test.
“Let’s go home,” she said.
Margoliouth raised his eyebrows.
“I suppose that all women are capricious.”
His use of the word “women,” as applied to her nineteen-year-old self, always insensibly flattered Lydia.
She let him take her back to the Bloomsbury boarding-house in a hansom, and remained passive, although unresponsive, when he put his arm round her, and pressed her against him in the narrow confinement of the cab.