"My dear Geraldine," protested Anthony, frowning humorously, "do have another cocktail. I annoy him. If I smoke a cigarette he comes into the room sniffing. He's a prig, a bore, and something of a hypocrite. I probably wouldn't be telling you this if I hadn't had a few drinks, but I don't suppose it matters."
Geraldine was persistently interested. She held her glass, untasted, between finger and thumb and regarded him with eyes in which there was a touch of awe.
"How do you mean a hypocrite?"
"Well," said Anthony impatiently, "maybe he's not. But he doesn't like the things that I like, and so, as far as I'm concerned, he's uninteresting."
"Hm." Her curiosity seemed, at length, satisfied. She sank back into the sofa and sipped her cocktail.
"You're a funny one," she commented thoughtfully. "Does everybody want to marry you because your grandfather is rich?"
"They don't—but I shouldn't blame them if they did. Still, you see, I never intend to marry."
She scorned this.
"You'll fall in love someday. Oh, you will—I know." She nodded wisely.
"It'd be idiotic to be overconfident. That's what ruined the Chevalier O'Keefe."