His lack of vision, of finer discernment, deeply annoyed him. Her lack of inclination to worship him, now that she had the God-sent opportunity, irritated him.
“The silly little bounder,” he thought, “how can she sit beside me without timidly venturing to entertain me?”
He stole another profoundly annoyed glance at Dulcie. The child was certainly beautiful—a slim, lovely, sensitive thing of qualities so delicate that the painter of pretty women became even more surprised and chagrined that it had taken Barres to discover this desirable girl in the silent, shabby child of Larry Soane.
Presently he lurched part way toward her in his chair, and looked at her with bored but patronising encouragement.
“Talk to me,” he said languidly.
Dulcie turned and looked at him out of uninterested grey eyes.
“What?” she said.
“Talk to me,” he repeated pettishly.
“Talk to yourself,” retorted Dulcie, and turned again to listen to the gay nonsense which Damaris and Westmore were exchanging amid peals of general laughter.