“Oh, I hope I know a few such people,” he rejoined rather anxiously. “I have been very lucky in my friends. And I like to think the best of people.”
“That is kind,” said Lady Sellingworth. “But I prefer to know the truth of people. And I must say I think most of us are quicksands. The worst of it is that so often when we do for a moment feel we are on firm ground we find it either too hard for our feet or too flat for our liking.”
At that moment she thought of Sir Seymour Portman.
“You think it is doubt which breeds fascination?” said Craven.
“Alas for us if it is so,” she answered, smiling.
“The human race is a very unsatisfactory race,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “I am only twenty-four and have found that out already. It is very clever of the French to cultivate irony as they do. The ironist always wears clothes and an undershirt of mail. But the sentimentalist goes naked in the east wind which blows through society. Not only is he bound to take cold, but he is liable to be pierced by every arrow that flies.”
“Yes, it is wise to cultivate irony,” said Lady Sellingworth.
“You have,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “One often sees it in your eyes. Isn’t it true?”
She turned to Craven; but he did not choose to agree with her.
“I’m a sentimentalist,” he said firmly. “And I never look about for irony. Perhaps that’s why I have not found it in Lady Sellingworth.”