“You see—” He got no further than “you see.”
“The soul and the body. The soul’s what matters,” said Agnes, and tapped for the waiter again. He looked at her admiringly, but felt that she was not a perfect critic. Perhaps she was too perfect to be a critic. Actual life might seem to her so real that she could not detect the union of shadow and adamant that men call poetry. He would even go further and acknowledge that she was not as clever as himself—and he was stupid enough! She did not like discussing anything or reading solid books, and she was a little angry with such women as did. It pleased him to make these concessions, for they touched nothing in her that he valued. He looked round the restaurant, which was in Soho and decided that she was incomparable.
“At half-past two I call on the editor of the ‘Holborn.’ He’s got a stray story to look at, and he’s written about it.”
“Oh, Rickie! Rickie! Why didn’t you put on a boiled shirt!”
He laughed, and teased her. “‘The soul’s what matters. We literary people don’t care about dress.”
“Well, you ought to care. And I believe you do. Can’t you change?”
“Too far.” He had rooms in South Kensington. “And I’ve forgot my card-case. There’s for you!”
She shook her head. “Naughty, naughty boy! Whatever will you do?”
“Send in my name, or ask for a bit of paper and write it. Hullo! that’s Tilliard!”
Tilliard blushed, partly on account of the faux pas he had made last June, partly on account of the restaurant. He explained how he came to be pigging in Soho: it was so frightfully convenient and so frightfully cheap.