‘Which one evidently does,’ said Laura maliciously, glancing at the infatuated group.
‘Men are such fools,’ said Terry.
‘Babies,’ sighed Lady Streatley.
Only once did Charles, who was the greatest contrast to his brother, being lean and brown and goodlooking and not much past thirty, besides remaining grave on all the occasions that evening when his brother laughed, for Charles was fastidious as well as sympathetic, and Sally’s accent didn’t amuse him, and he hated to see her unwittingly amusing the other four infatuated fools,—only once did he get her a moment to himself, and then only for a minute or two, while there was some slight rearrangement of positions because of the bringing in of a tray of drinks.
When he did, this was the conversation:
‘I believe,’ said Charles in a low voice, ‘you’re every bit as beautiful inside as you are out.’
‘Me?’ said Sally with weary surprise—by this time she was deadly tired—for she hadn’t thought of bodies as reversible. ‘Ain’t I all pink?’
‘Pink?’ echoed Charles, not at first following. Then he said rather hastily, being queasy and without Streatley’s robust ability to enjoy anything, ‘I mean your spirit. It’s just as divinely beautiful as your face. I’m sure it is. I’m sure you never have a thought that isn’t lovely——’
And he went on to murmur—why on earth he should say these inanities he couldn’t think, and was much annoyed to hear them coming out—that he hoped her husband loved her as she deserved.
‘You never see such lovin’,’ said Sally earnestly, who didn’t mind this one of the gentlemen as much as the others.