"Perhaps!" he smiled. "What these young macaronies" (with a motion, indicating those around him) "could venture with impunity, we older heads dare not. It is not dignified for us."
"Then do not ever fall in love, Mr. Maynadier; love is the most undignified of all our frailties."
"In what way is it undignified?" he asked.
"In every way—particularly, in the exhibition of one's feelings. Every one makes sport of the lover—every one laughs at him."
"Then the world is overrun with fools—for they are but laughing at themselves. No, no, my lady! I find no fault with love, ever—only with him who simulates it, and is old enough to know better. Comprenez vous?"
"Oh, yes, I understand," she said, with a frank smile; "but I do not agree with you."
"A woman's privilege! she never agrees, and is fascinating always."
"Perversity, you think?"
"Diversity!" he laughed, and bowed himself away.
At supper, a little later, he occupied a place beside Miss Marbury. Parkington was at the opposite end of the table, one removed from the silent host, whom he was trying, as best he could, to bring into the conversation, but with indifferent success. A word, a nod, a short sentence, rarely, was all that he could elicit. But even Maynadier could not have got as much out of him—and he watched them, contemplatively, through the meal....