Lewis was talking to a small brown man whom she didn’t remember inviting.
“Dear Helena,” said Lewis as she approached, “you look wonderfully well-preserved.”
“George, you’re a devil,” said Mrs Stevanson, secretly pleased.
Lewis embraced her in much the same way Beatrice Jordan had. “What mad things have you been doing, Helena? Something naughty, I’m sure.” His innocent blue eyes sparkled as he spoke. He had the expressions of a child.
“Nothing that you couldn’t equal. It was delightful of you to come.”
“I was so bored, darling, I felt that if I stayed home another moment I should go completely out of my mind.”
“Poor thing.” They talked this way with each other, talked with the casual rudeness of people who have met each other at many parties. He was an amazing person, thought Mrs Stevanson, looking at him carefully. He was slim and not very tall, with a pretty feminine face and, except for the small bitter lines about his mouth, he looked as if he were still in his twenties. His actual age was unknown. Mrs Stevanson thought he was forty.
“And whom have we here?” asked Mrs Stevanson, turning to face the small brown man beside him, a social smile on her face.
“Why, don’t you know ... this is....” He said the name quickly. It was something foreign and difficult. She would have to call Lewis up the next day and ask him. She shook hands with the little man and saw that he was impressed with her. She smiled as George Robert Lewis explained him. He was a Greek and a professor and he knew a lot about poetry.
“But Helena, he has the most fabulous philosophy. I really think it’s never been done before. What was it again, Timon?” Mrs Stevanson knew his first name now.