“I suppose so.”
“Well, if you really ask me, I should put my opinion a bit stronger. Of course he’s no ass. He did a lot at college.”
“Oh, those are often the stupidest men!” Teresa said sharply.
“In that case, he’s stupid.”
But from the look she turned on him he suddenly realised that she was very much in earnest, and began to speak seriously, while the thought shot through his mind, “Great Scott! She’s ambitious for that poor little nonentity!” He said aloud, “You know Sir Henry Thurstone by name? He told me last year he believed Wilbraham could do anything he liked, and he doesn’t say that sort of thing freely. They’re all anxious he should go into Parliament, and I suppose he will when he’s once married.”
She kept her eyes fixed on him while he spoke, and while she slowly answered—
“Of course Sylvia—is not exactly clever.”
“Well, wives don’t have to be clever,” said Maxwell, trying to find something that would not sound brutal.
“No.”
“And she’s awfully pretty. No doubt about that.” He went on hurriedly—“See that wine-cart? A great picturesque blob of colour, isn’t it, with the horse hung all over with red tassels?”