“We are invited to tennis at their house, for next Tuesday,” said Harold, “so you will have a chance of pursuing the acquaintance. For my part, I don’t admire that sort of girl.”
“Don’t you? I am attracted by originality. I like a woman to have something in her.”
“Depends on what it is. I hate a girl to have a lot of silly ideas.”
“Perhaps you prefer her to have but one,” said Temperley, “that one being that Mr. Harold Wilkins is a charming fellow.”
“Nothing of the kind,” cried Harold. “I can’t help it if girls run after me; it’s a great bore.”
Temperley laughed. “You, like Achilles, are pursued by ten thousand girls. I deeply sympathize, though it is not an inconvenience that has troubled me, even in my palmiest days.”
“Why, how old are you? Surely you are not going to talk as if those days were over?”
“Oh, I am moderately palmy still!” Temperley admitted. “Still, the hour approaches when the assaults of time will become more disastrous.”
“You and Hadria Fullerton ought to get on well together, for she is very musical,” said Harold Wilkins.
“Ah!” cried Temperley with new interest. “I could have almost told that from her face. Does she play well?”