He stood upright, drawing himself up with ironical emphasis, as if to show as plainly as possible that there were many years of life and work in him yet.
Edith Mazerod laughed, the careless passing laugh of inattention.
“Dora,” she said, “may I introduce General Michael? My cousin.”
She rose, and Seymour Michael prepared to take the vacant seat. The youth called Jack was making signs with his eyebrows, and in attempting to decipher his meaning she forgot to mention Dora's name.
“You will be sorry for this,” said Seymour Michael, sitting down. “You will not thank your cousin.”
“Why?” inquired Dora, prepared to like him, possibly because he had a brown face and wore his hair cut short.
“Because,” he replied, “I am hopelessly new to this work.”
“So am I,” replied Dora; “I don't even know what pictures to look at and what to ignore. So I dare not look at the walls at all.”
“That is precisely my position, only I am worse. You know how to behave in polite circles; I don't. You have a slightly tired look, as if this sort of thing wearied you by reason of its monotony.”
“Have I? I am sorry for that.”