Mathilda was not pretty. She had good eyes, and beautiful hair, but not even in her dewy youth had she been able to deceive herself into thinking that she was good-looking. She had sensibly accepted her plainness, and had, she said, put all her money on style. She was much nearer thirty than twenty; she enjoyed private means; lived in a cottage not uncomfortably far from London; and eked out her income by occasional journalism, and the breeding of bull-terriers. Valerie Dean, who was Stephen's fiancee, vaguely resented her, because she dressed so well, and made her plainness so arresting that she attracted a good deal of attention at parties at which Valerie had confidently expected to draw all eyes upon herself.
"Of course, darling, it isn't that I don't like your cousin," Valerie told Stephen, "but it's so silly to call her striking. Because she's practically hideous, isn't she, Stephen?"
"Sure," said Stephen.
"Do you think she's so frightfully clever, Stephen? I mean, do you?"
"Never thought about it. She's a damned good sort."
"Oh, darling, that sounds absolutely foul!" said Valerie, pleased. "Don't you wish she weren't going to be at Lexham?"
"No."
"Oh, Stephen, you are a swine! Why don't you?"
"I like her. I wish you'd shut your pretty little trap. I hate being yapped at when I'm driving."
"You are a low hound, Stephen. Do you love me?"