In the hall I could hear Lionel Holland apologising for his mudstained appearance, and Mr. Hallward’s breezy voice laughing away his scruples.
“Nonsense, my boy, nonsense, I like to see it. It shows you have been enjoying yourself in a fine, manly way. Grahame, take your friend upstairs and let him wash his face and hands.”
Mr. Hallward always took pleasure in the display of jovial hospitality. In reality he was a somewhat bad-tempered man, but when he was in the mood for a little display of amateur histrionics there was no one more genial or hearty.
Sibella was flushed with excitement and I was inwardly fuming.
“What is his name?” she demanded, turning to me as Lionel Holland’s voice died away upstairs.
“Lionel Holland,” I answered, as cheerfully as I could, determined that, if possible, I would not betray my annoyance.
“Do you like him?”
“Oh, he is all right.” I might just as well have said plainly that I disliked him, for Sibella was not deceived. She had a Jezebel’s gift for detecting antagonisms between those of the opposite sex and playing upon them. I believe this characteristic invariably differentiates the woman who uses her sex power for evil from the woman who uses it for good.
“You don’t like him,” she answered at once. “You are jealous of him.”
“Jealous! Why?”