So far Joan had maintained her positions without passion. But now suddenly her indignation at Peter’s interference flared to heaven. That he should come here, hot from Soho, to tyrannize over her! Indians indeed! As if Hetty Reinhart wasn’t worse than a Gold Coast nigger!...
The only outward manifestation of this wild storm of resentment had been her one instant’s scowl at Peter. Thereafter Joan became again the quiet, intelligently watchful young woman she had been all that evening. But now she turned herself through an angle of about thirty degrees towards Huntley, who was talking to old Mrs. Jex, the wonder of Hampstead, who used to know George Eliot and Huxley, the while he was regarding Joan with sidelong covetousness. Joan lifted her eyes towards him with an expression of innocent interest. The slightly projecting blue eyes seemed to leap in response.
Mrs. Jex was always rather inattentive to her listener when she was reciting her reminiscences, and Huntley was able to turn away from her quietly without interrupting the flow.
The Sheldrick circle scorned the formalities of introductions. “Are you from the Slade school?” said Huntley.
“Cambridge,” said Joan.
“My name’s Gavan Huntley.”
But this was going to be more amusing than Joan had expected. This was a real live novelist—Joan’s first. Not a fortnight ago she had read The Pernambuco Bunshop, and thought it rather clever and silly.
“Not the Gavan Huntley?” she said.
His face became faintly luminous with satisfaction. “Just Gavan Huntley,” he said with a large smile.
“The Pernambuco Bunshop?” she said.