Rodney West turned amiably to Ivor, who was getting rather left behind.
“Mrs. Gray, you must know, has made an art of friendship,” he explained. “The art of friendship consists of defending people you’ve met twice by attacking people you’ve known all your life.”
That light laugh of Magdalen’s! it was like a laugh from a Victorian novel, so gentle and smoothing and right! And, as she laughed, her eyes, so large and thoughtful in the shadow of her black hat, rested with ever so passing an intentness on Ivor, secretly. And she seemed to be saying to him: “This man has certain rights and many grievances, and it’s all my fault. So we’ll let him be, shall we, for he’s a sweet man, really.”
And Ivor suddenly felt that all this had happened to him before, to him and to her, in some ancient place long, long ago; and he felt poignantly at ease with her, he understood the things she didn’t say—this slim, soft woman with the soft hair like the night and the wonderfully friendly, deeply joyous eyes.
He knew nothing, nothing in the world, of men and women; he only knew that he was very alone and that shadows were all about, shadows that never flickered, shadows that only stared and smiled, waiting, waiting, waiting for his full worthiness....
3
It was as they were at last leaving the place—long after the paid bill had been whipped away from Rodney West as though it were an indecency which should never have been committed—and were winding up the stairs to the exalted atmosphere of Piccadilly by night, that she turned to await Ivor, who was a few steps behind them, and said:—
“There’s a kind of dinner-party at my house to-morrow night, to which you are being invited at this moment....”
“The telephone-book,” she said, “is full of little details about my address.”
Kind, curious woman—by saying things like that she made one think oneself had spoken, she made one forget that one was dull, dull, unworthy of the moment....