At this point Edelgard danced away with Jellaby from under my very nose. I made an instinctive movement toward the slender figure alone in the corner, but even as I moved a half-grown boy secured her and hurried her off among the dancers. Looking round, I saw no one else I could go and talk to; even Mrs. Menzies-Legh was not available. There was nothing for it, therefore, but unadulterated Raggett.
“It is nice,” observed this person, watching the dancers—he had a hooky profile as well as a glassy eye—“to see young people enjoying themselves.”
I bowed, determined to keep within the limits of strict iciness; but as Jellaby and my wife whirled past I could not forbear adding:
“Especially when the young people are so mature that they are fully aware of the extent of their own enjoyment.”
“Yes,” said he; without, however, any real responsiveness.
“It is only,” said I, “when a woman is mature, and more than mature, that she begins to enjoy being young.”
“Yes,” said he; still with no real responsiveness.
“You may possibly,” said I, nettled by this indifference, “regard that as a paradox.”
“No,” said he.
“It is, however,” said I more loudly, “not one.”