"You see, she's a dear, but only my half-sister after all," he said to Bradstock, "and women are so wonderful! I can tell you a story by and by of a Greek lady, and one about a Spaniard. And, to tell the truth, I almost agree with Pen. I'm a bit of a socialist, or an anarchist, if you like. Have you read Nietzsche?"
"Who wrote it?" asked Bradstock.
But the horde came in one by one, and Penelope, who was dressed in the most unremarkable costume at her disposal, and looked like a lily, received them at the door.
"A most awful and improper situation," said Titania.
"I say, I'll tell you about that Greek girl," said Brading. "Do you think Pen could stick a knife in a fellow?"
Bradstock didn't think so, and listened to the story of the lady who suggested the notion.
"Right through my coat and waistcoat," said Brading. "Only a very stiff piece of starch saved my life!"
"Good heavens!" cried Bradstock.
The room was full, and Bob buzzed around it like a bluebottle in an orchard.
"Oh, I say," he cried to every one. He told the story of the parrot after he had asked Brading whether he had it right. He tried it on De Vere and failed. Goby roared handsomely. Bramber was absent-minded with his eye on Penelope. Gordon said, "Yes, yes, a ripping good story." The Marquis de Rivaulx balked at it, but was led to understand it.