"Is she pretty?" asked Kathleen.
Molly Healy watched him curiously, and noted a certain embarrassment in his face.
"That is a question of taste. Some people consider her pretty," he answered.
"And why not say that Desmond O'Connor is one of those people? Of course she is pretty, Kathleen, and charming and kind to Desmond. Didn't he say so? Are you kind to her, Desmond?" cried Molly.
"Kind to her?" he replied, with a species of horror in his voice, as if one of his most sacred convictions had been criticised. "One cannot be kind to a girl like Sylvia Jackson."
"And why not kind?" asked Molly.
"I admire and respect—in fact, I almost reverence—her. She is so"—he paused for a suitable word—"so ethereal. She is more like a spirit than a piece of common human nature."
Molly Healy was with great difficulty attempting to restrain a giggle. She recognised that to give her amusement full play would be to grievously annoy him. For this reason she turned to look out of the window, thrusting her handkerchief into her mouth the while.
"Does she play?" asked Kathleen.