“I was only telling you,” she said. “But about people—I saw them very clearly, Ivor. I saw George....”
“So did I. He’s been here several times.”
“I know.” He followed her eyes to the mantelpiece, and there, in a basket like a nest, were plovers’ eggs cushioned on a pile of the stuff that plovers’ nests are made of.
“But it’s not the season,” he protested. He felt rather hurt.
“They’re made of sweet stuff,” Virginia explained. “Mr. Selfridge makes them, and they’re supposed to be eatable....”
“George,” she said, “is an inventive man. He is also an inevitable man. I mean, he’s always there, somewhere about, and one can’t get rid of him. One can’t get rid of him, Ivor, because he won’t be got rid of—he simply won’t take one seriously, don’t you see? And how can one get rid of a man who doesn’t take one seriously?”
“Men like that,” she said softly, “want nothing. So unlike you, dear....”
Ivor’s eyes had darkened. So! But she had him at a disadvantage, she was so gray and wan! So he only said, “Pouf!” and tried to say it easily, but her little, amused smile penetrated him.
“Oh, Ivor!” she teased him, “I didn’t mean what you thought I meant. You are so suspicious, Ivor! I didn’t mean that I was going to let George come back into my life....”
“I was only talking, dear,” she said weakly.