“Thanks. My name is Owin Clive.”
“Oh, you are Mary Gordon’s friend, that she has been expecting.”
“Miss Gordon is an old friend of mine.” He half-consciously hoped that Miss Belmont did not know of his engagement.
“She says you are frightfully handsome.”
Clive laughed. “I cannot imagine Miss Gordon using any such expression; but then she has been two years in California.”
“I suppose Englishmen can’t help being rude. I remember exactly what she said, and she said it so slowly and placidly. ‘Oh, yes, dear Miss Belmont, I think our men are very fine-looking indeed.’ (I had been black-guarding them.) ‘My friend, Mr. Clive, of whom you have heard me speak, is quite the handsomest man I have ever seen.’”
“That sounds more like it. And that is exactly what she would have said two years ago. I mean,” laughing with some embarrassment, “the way she would have expressed herself.”
“Oh, I suppose you are a mass of vanity; all men are. Yes; your Mary Gordon is as English as if she had never left Hertfordshire. And always will be. She hasn’t a spark of originality.”
Clive discerned her purpose, but he replied coldly, “Say rather that she has individuality.”
“Which she hasn’t, and you know it. I have that. Do you think there is much in common between us?”