Matravers fingered his programme nervously.
“You are interested in this production, Ellison,” he said, “and I should be sorry to write anything likely to do it harm. I think it would be better if I went away now. I cannot be blamed if I decline to give an opinion on anything which I have only partially seen.”
Ellison shook his head.
“No, I’ll chance it,” he said. “Don’t go. You haven’t seen Berenice at her best yet. You have not seen her at all, in fact.”
“What I have seen,” Matravers said gravely, “I do not like.”
“At least,” Ellison protested, “she is beautiful.”
“According to what canons of beauty, I wonder?” Matravers remarked. “I hold myself a very poor judge of woman’s looks, but I can at least recognize the classical and Renaissance standards. The beauty which this woman possesses, if any, is of the decadent order. I do not recognize it. I cannot appreciate it!”
Ellison laughed softly. He had a marvellous belief in this woman and in her power of attracting.
“You are not a woman’s man, Matravers, or you would know that her beauty is not a matter of curves and colouring! You cannot judge her as a piece of statuary. All your remarks you would retract if you talked with her for five minutes. I am not sure,” he continued, “that I dare not warrant you to retract them before this evening is over. At least, I ask you to stay. I will run my risk of your pulverization.”