“Oh, yes. I meant of self-mockery.”
Braybrooke looked rather dubious.
“I think,” continued Craven, perhaps a little obstinately, “that she looks upon herself with irony, while Miss Van Tuyn looks upon others with irony. Perhaps, though, that is rather a question of the different outlooks of youth and age.”
“H’m?”
Braybrooke pulled at his grey-and-brown beard.
“I scarcely see—I scarcely see, I confess, why age should be more disposed to self-mockery than youth. Age, if properly met and suitably faced—that is, with dignity and self-respect, such as Adela Sellingworth undoubtedly shows—has no reason for self-mockery; whereas youth, although charming and delightful might well laugh occasionally at its own foolishness.”
“Ah, but it never does!”
“I think for once I shall have a cocktail,” said Braybrooke, signing to an attendant in livery, who at that moment came from some hidden region and looked around warily.
“You will join me, Craven? Let it be dry Martinis. Eh? Yes! Two dry Martinis.”
As the attendant went away Braybrooke added: