"Who told you that?" Evie was breathless from surprise.
"It isn't an unique view—broad-minded men often try to get narrow-minded girls to see that standpoint."
"You're cynical—I hate cynical people," said Evie, throwing herself on her bed, "and you have all your ideas of life out of books, and the rotten people who come in here moaning about their troubles. You can't believe writers—not some writers—there are some, of course, that give just a true picture of life—not in books, but in articles in the newspapers. They just seem to know what people are thinking and feeling, and express themselves wonderfully."
"Ah—so Ronnie writes for the newspapers, does he?"
Evie's indignant retort was checked by a knock on the door.
"That is Mr. Sault—can he come in?"
"I suppose so," answered Evie grudgingly. She got off the bed and tied her dressing-gown more tightly. "I don't really show my legs through this kimono do I, Christina?"
"Not unless you want to—come in!"
Ambrose Sault looked tired. "Just looked in before I went to my room," he said. "Good evening, Evie."
"Good evening, Mr. Sault."