"Immensely. She asked all her friends to a Japanese tea-party in Mr. Robinson's room. The rest of the furniture was early Victorian."
This anecdote was not altogether to Audrey's taste. She walked to a shelf where Ted had put some bronzes, looked at them with a decided air of criticism, and arranged them differently. Having asserted her independence, she replied severely—
"Your friend's friend must have been an extremely silly woman."
"Not at all; she was a most intelligent, well-informed person, with—er—a deep sense of religion."
"And now, Mr. Haviland, you're making matters worse. You care nothing about her religion; you simply think her a fool, and you meant that I'm like her. Else why did you tell such a pointless story?"
"Forgive me; the association of ideas was irresistible. You are like her—in your utter simplicity and guileless devotion to an ideal."
He looked all round the room again, and sank back on the sofa cushions all limp with laughter.
"I—I never saw anything so inexpressibly sad as this afternoon's work; it's heartrending."
His eye fell on the terra-cotta Parisienne dancing inanely on her pedestal, and he moaned like one in pain. Audrey's mouth twitched and her cheeks flamed for a second. She turned her back on Ted, until his fit had spent itself, dying away among the cushions in low gurgles. Then there was silence.
Ted raised his head and looked up. She was still standing in the same place, but one hand was moving slowly towards her pocket.