“It is sometimes a relief,” he said, “to find some woman who is not deliberately directing her powers.”
“You make my idea crystallize into an ugly thought, Mr. Flandon. It’s hardly fair.”
There she was, pulling him into heavy argument. He felt that he had been awkward and that it was entirely her fault. He took refuge in the commonplaces of gallantry.
“Ugly thoughts are impossible in some company. You’re quite mistaken in my meaning.”
She smiled, a half amused smile which did not so much reject his compliment as show him how impervious she was to such things. Deliberately she turned to Helen who had been enveloped by the ponderous conversation of the host. Mr. Brownley liked to talk to Helen and Helen was giving him that absorbed attention which she usually gave to any man. Gage and Margaret joined them, and as if she wondered at the brevity of their initial exchange, Helen gave them a swift glance.
“Well,” she said, “have the feminist and the anti-feminist found peace in each other?”
“She refuses to be complimented,” grinned Gage, rather sheepishly, immensely grateful to Helen for making a joke of that momentary antagonism.
“Have women given up their liking for compliments?” Mr. Brownley beamed upon them beneficently, quite conscious of his ability to remain gallant in his own drawing-room. “Not these women surely.”
Gage flushed a little. It was almost what he himself had said. It had been his tone.
“We have been given so much more than compliments, Mr. Brownley,” said Margaret Duffield, “that they seem a little tasteless after stronger food.”