Hermia remembered her experience with Cryder. He had talked very beautifully of the past—once. Life was making her skeptical. “Have you written any of your book?” she asked.
“Yes, it is nearly done.”
“Would you let me see it? Or is that asking too much? But—that period of history particularly interests me. I used to live in it.”
“Did you? I should be very glad to have you read my effusions; but wading through manuscript is a frightful bore.”
“I have waded through a good deal,” said Hermia, briefly. “Bring it to-morrow night. No,”—she had suddenly recollected that the next was Cryder’s evening. “Bring it the next night—no—the next. Will that do?”
“Yes,” said Quintard. “I will afflict you, with great pleasure, if you will let me.”
When they went down-stairs, Mrs. Dykman wrapped Hermia’s furs more closely about her. “I hope, my dear,” she murmured, “you do not mind that the whole house is talking about you. Do you know that Mr. Quintard is the only man whom you have condescended to notice during the entire evening?”
“No?” said Hermia. “I had not thought about it. No, I don’t mind. A woman is not happy until she is talked about—just a little, you know. When her position is secure, it makes her so picturesque—quite individual.”
“You will be engaged before the week is over. You will be accused of having deserted Mr. Cryder, and entered upon a more desperate flirtation yet. The ultra caustic will remember Grettan Quintard’s reputation.”
“You can deny the engagement,” said Hermia.