“I’m sure Mrs Stevanson wouldn’t be interested.” As a matter of fact Mrs Stevanson wasn’t interested but she encouraged him.
“I should love to know,” she said. How like an earthenware pot he looks, she thought as he began to tell her his theory.
“You see it is based on the legend of the Golden Fleece. I have substituted the artistic ultimate in place of the fleece and, to carry the myth to its final parallel, I envisage all artists as traveling upon an Argosy....” She listened politely, carefully to the sound of the words, ignoring their meanings. She glanced up and down the large white-paneled room. No one was drunk.
“Isn’t it stimulating?” asked Lewis when the Greek named Timon had finished.
“Wonderful,” murmured Mrs Stevanson.
The Greek flushed happily. “I don’t think the Argosy’s ever been interpreted quite that way before.”
“I’m sure it hasn’t,” agreed Mrs Stevanson. She was becoming impatient now. Her own Argosy would have to begin again. More guests were arriving.
“Have you seen the new ballet?” asked Lewis suddenly.
“No, I haven’t seemed to have had the time.”
“It’s dreadful. But the boy...” Lewis made little motions with his hand, with his mouth, with his body. His eyes glittered their blue innocence, their cheerful pleasure. He described the boy to her and in great detail he told her how he was going to arrange a meeting.