He turned himself round with a jerk. “A star?”
His father’s letter was still in his pocket. It contained in the course of its operatic clauses some references to a Star—a Star, who, alas! was not refined—who, on the contrary, was expensive.
He struck a match very viciously and lit his cigar.
Miss Craven had just appeared on the terrace.
He dropped his still flaming match on the hard gravel walk and put his foot upon it.
“A star!”
He was very vicious.
“She is not a particularly good talker, but she is a most fascinating listener,” said Edmund Airey, who strolled up.
“I have noticed so much—when you have been the talker,” said Harold. “It is only to the brilliant talker that the fascinating listener appeals. By the way, how does ‘fascinated listener’ sound as a phrase? Haven’t I read somewhere that the speeches of an eminent politician were modelled on the principle of catching birds by night? You flash a lamp upon them and they may be captured by the score. The speeches were compared to the lantern and the public to the birds.”
“Gulls,” said Edmund. “My dear Harold, I did not come out here to exchange opinions with you on the vexed question of vote-catching or gulls—it will be time enough to do so when you have found a constituency.”