Lesbia confessed that she had no such friends. She liked everybody tolerably; but she had not a talent for friendship. Perhaps it was because in the London season one was too busy to make friends.
'I can fancy two girls getting quite attached to each other, out of the season,' she said, 'but in May and June life is all a rush and a scramble----'
'And one has no time to gather wayside flowers of friendship,' interjected Mr. Smithson. 'Still, if there are no people for whom you have an especial liking, there must be people whom you detest.'
Lesbia owned that it was so. Detestation came of itself, naturally.
'Then let me be sure I do not ask any of your pet aversions,' said Mr. Smithson. 'You met Mr. Plantagenet Parsons, the theatrical critic, at my house. Shall we have him?'
'I like all amusing people.'
'And Horace Meander, the poet. Shall we have him? He is brimful of conceits and affectations, but he's a tremendous joke.'
'Mr. Meander is charming.'
'Suppose we ask Mostyn and his wife? Her scraps of science are rather good fun.'
'I haven't the faintest objection to the Mostyns,' replied Lesbia. 'But who are "we"?'