“What you say is perfectly convincing as a proposition, Arthur,” she remarked. “The man who’s Never—never does know; but the application is another matter. From report, there were hopes for Rollo Butterfield that he has failed to justify. He flirted notoriously.”
“Thank you, gracious lady,” I replied complacently, leaning back at my ease. “That is the name the world gives it.”
“Your conduct with Dolly Hemingway was shameless.”
“Marriage would certainly have been an illogical conclusion,” I admitted.
“And Violet Mellish told me herself——”
“Dear little Vi,” I approved. “Her conversation never did lack the relish of revelation. You must not suppose, Arthur, that I have not had the normal past that my years would guarantee. You appear to think so.”
Bassishaw didn’t seem to see it at all. He fumbled with his fork.
“I expect you’ve had your fancies, of course,” he replied. “But I don’t mean just fancies—that’s only flirting.”
The man who cannot flirt never sees that the power to do so is a gift of the gods. Arthur held by negative constancy.
“Flirtation,” I replied, “is not the simple affair you think, Arthur. It is not necessarily a matter of twilights and conservatories, and does not even always demand privacy. For a flirtation with zest there is nothing like having an audience. Is that not so, Millicent?”