“Don’t think so. Only casual droppers-in here and there; Aunt Maimie and so on. Why?”
“Because, if we’ve room, I want to ask some people; friends of mine in London. Denison’s one.”
Daphne, who knew Denison slightly, and did not like him, received this without joy. They had met last year at Cambridge, and he had annoyed her in several ways. One was his clothes; Daphne liked men to be neat. Another was, that at the dance given by the college which he and Eddy adorned, he had not asked her to dance, though introduced for that purpose, but had stood at her side while she sat partnerless through her favourite waltz, apparently under the delusion that what was required of him was interesting conversation. Even that had failed before long, as Daphne had neither found it interesting nor pretended to do so, and they remained in silence together, she indignant and he unperturbed, watching the festivities with an indulgent, if cynical, eye. A disagreeable, useless, superfluous person, Daphne considered him. He gathered this; it required no great subtlety to gather things from Daphne; and accommodated himself to her idea of him, laying himself out to provoke and tease. He was one of the few people who could sting Daphne to real temper.
So she said, “Oh.”
“The others,” went on Eddy, hastily, “are two girls I know; they’ve been over-working rather and are run down, and I thought it might be rather good for them to come here. Besides, they’re great friends of mine, and of Denison’s—(one of them’s his cousin)—and awfully nice. I’ve written about them sometimes, I expect—Jane Dawn and Eileen Le Moine. Jane draws extraordinarily nice things in pen and ink, and is altogether rather a refreshing person. Eileen plays the violin—you must have heard her name—Mrs. Le Moine. Everyone’s going to hear her just now; she’s wonderful.”
“She’d better play at the bazaar, I should think,” suggested Daphne, who didn’t see why parsons’ daughters should be the only ones involved in this bazaar business. She wasn’t very fond of artists and musicians and literary people, for the most part; so often their conversation was about things that bored one.
“Are they pretty?” she inquired, wanting to know if Eddy was at all in love with either of them. It might be amusing if he was.
Eddy considered. “I don’t know that you’d call Jane pretty, exactly. Very nice to look at. Sweet-looking, and extraordinarily innocent.”
“I don’t like sweet innocent girls,” said Daphne. “They’re so inept, as a rule.”
“Well, Jane’s very ept. She’s tremendously clever at her own things, you know; in fact, clever all round, only clever’s not a bit the word as a matter of fact. She’s a genius, I suppose—a sort of inspired child, very simple about everything, and delightful to talk to. Not the least conventional.”