After that, with easy nonchalance approaching impudence, he turned to his own neglected dinner partner, Sylvia Quest, who received his tardy attentions with childish irritation. She didn't know any better. And there was now no time to patch up matters, for the signal to rise had been given and Dysart took Sylvia to the door with genuine relief. She bored him dreadfully since she had become sentimental over him. They always did.
Lounging back through the rising haze of tobacco-smoke he encountered Peter Tappan and stopped to exchange a word.
"Dancing?" he inquired, lighting his cigarette.
Tappan nodded. "You, too, of course." For Dysart was one of those types known in society as a "dancing man." He also led cotillions, and a morally blameless life as far as the more virile Commandments were concerned.
He said: "That little Seagrave girl is rather fetching."
Tappan answered indifferently:
"She resembles the general run of this year's output. She's weedy. They all ought to marry before they go about to dinners, anyway."
"Marry whom?"
"Anybody—Delancy, here, for instance. You know as well as I do that no woman is possible unless she's married," yawned Tappan. "Isn't that so, Delancy?" clapping Grandcourt on the shoulder.
Grandcourt said "yes," to be rid of him; but Dysart turned around with his usual smile of amused contempt.