People were beginning to leave. It was eight-thirty and Mrs Stevanson was glad to see them go. The first two hours were interesting and then she found herself bored.
On the other hand George Robert Lewis was not bored. He was slightly drunk and enjoying himself very much. He was usually overcome by a monstrous ennui during the day which, as evening came, grew less and less. In a few more hours he would have discovered a reason for living and this would keep him happy until he woke up the next morning with a hang-over.
He was glad when he heard that the famous Bankton’s wife was at the party. She had been pointed out to him but he hadn’t met her yet. He stopped a waiter and took a cocktail from him. And, equipped for conversation with a woman, he marched across the drawing room to where Carla stood talking with a young man, a rather nice young man, thought Lewis.
“Mrs Bankton?”
She turned and looked at him and he rather liked her brown-green eyes.
“Yes?” She looked at him as though she wanted him to go away. Lewis was sensitive to such things but not particularly nonplussed; in fact he was accustomed to being asked to go away.
“I’m George Robert Lewis ... you know Regarde, the avant garde magazine, only it’s so trite now to call anything avant garde. You must have seen it. We did the most splendid article on Bankton last year. I’ve just loved his work because I can feel what he’s trying to do: post-surrealism and all that sort of thing. I’m all for it; in fact, we’re all for people like Bankton who do things. I just felt I couldn’t help but come over and say hello.”
She smiled at him very nicely. “I’ve heard of you, Mr Lewis. My husband thinks very highly of what your magazine is doing.”
“He does? Oh, but isn’t that simply marvelous! I always felt I would be most sympathetic with the great Bankton. Tell me, darling, when do you expect him in this country?”
She took the “darling” quite well, he thought.