"Monty's an epicure. An epicure in sensation."
"Er ... yes," said Jacky, agreeably. Patricia thought her cliche enlightening. Jacky's vacant face was not. She had the feeling that she towered above Jacky.
"Nobody could say that of you," she remarked. But her tone was less offensive than her words. "You're just a nice little boy. You don't know anything."
Jacky shot her a look of infantile cunning.
"Ha, ha!" he laughed, with a small feeble simulation of heartiness. It roused Patricia's affection for him. She felt he really was a nice little boy, clean and unpretentious, not at all baffling or sophisticated or exciting. They danced together again; and Patricia felt how pleasant and uneventful it was to dance with Jacky.
vi
Patricia did not dance again that evening with Monty; but he spoke to her before she left. He had been bidding good-bye to some guests as Patricia was leaving; and Jacky was farther away, struggling with his overcoat. Monty, in the tapestried hall, subdued to dimness by the method by which it was lighted, looked like a Pasha. He was swarthy and impassive and alluring. Patricia had that quick feeling—of loose robes and a turban; and sherbet and willing slaves who came obediently in response to a clapping of hands. She imagined heavy incense, and the plashing of fountains and all the delights of those stories she had read of the East, and Monty was the Pasha of these stories.... He came to Patricia as she emerged cloaked and hooded and ready for the road.
"I'm sorry you're going," he said in his low voice. "We must dance again soon."
There was flattery in his manner; he made Patricia feel that he thought her beautiful and marvellous and charming and full of grace and tenderness. She stood beside him, as tall as Monty, but very slender and youthful, a complete contrast in her fairness.