"There are things one must stick out for," insisted Wyndham. "For instance, I could never marry a woman who wasn't intelligent, and certainly never one who wasn't beautiful."
"Intelligent—yes. But what is beauty?" asked Sadler, shrugging his shoulders. "And if you get a woman too obviously beautiful, you'll have every man a mile round making love to her, like flies round a honey-pot. It's a sort of primitive law of the universe, and it'll hold good for all time, I suppose."
"Oh, I should chance all that," said Wyndham.
"But what is beauty?" insisted Sadler.
"I know when I see it," laughed Wyndham.
"Give me character," said Sadler. "Unselfishness and loyalty are the chief points, and a sort of sweet reasonableness, of course. If a woman's features aren't quite classical, it's wonderful what a good dressmaker can do to set them off. Waiter! Cigarettes!"
When ultimately the waiter brought the bill, Sadler produced a silver sovereign purse, saw with unconcealed horror that it contained only half a sovereign, then felt in his pockets for loose silver. "It's rather awkward," he said, pulling the longest of faces. "I'm afraid I haven't enough left on me after paying for my colours and materials this morning. I shall have to ask you to lend me a little."
A flash of surprise, an imperceptible raising of the eyebrows; then swiftly Wyndham accepted the situation, and threw down one of Mary's banknotes. "Sorry I've nothing smaller," he said, smiling.
"All right, old fellow," said Sadler. "You pay this time, I'll pay next time."
By the time the waiter brought Wyndham his change, the conversation had passed on to the last exhibition of the New English Art Club.