Gordon growled under his breath, and took another step into the room. Diana saw him, but made no sign. He was one with the furniture.
“If he’d only stay away for another week!” she sighed.
It was the opportunity for which Bobbie had hoped.
“You know, old Gordon isn’t such a bad chap,” he said. “I know one’s first impression is that he is a terrible prig, and his manner is bad, I admit; and he’s a thought conceited. These intellectuals are. Though why, I’ve never understood.”
She shook her head. Evidently she had already found excuses for Gordon, and there was no need for his championship.
“Conceited? But most men are, don’t you think? I wouldn’t call it conceit—he’s a little self-important, that’s all.”
The hand that wielded the broom trembled, the dust-pan wobbled.
“Yes, I suppose that’s what he is,” said Bobbie thoughtfully. “Gordon was rather spoilt as a kid, and that makes a man a little self-important.”
“And pharisaical, don’t you think?” suggested Diana, considering. “I ought not to say anything unkind. Really I’m not. He isn’t any worse for our frankness.”
Mr. Gordon Selsbury half rose from his knees, his mouth working, his face pale with fury.