"I hate shy people."
"You must ask him."
"I don't know him. What's he like?"
"Oh, I thought you did. He...." I paused and tried to think how the Seraph should be described; it was not easy. "Medium height," I ventured at last, "fair hair, rather a white face; curious, rather haunting dark eyes. Middle twenties, but usually looks younger. Very nervous and overwrought, frightfully shy...."
"Sounds like a degenerate poet."
"He's had a good deal of trouble," I added. "Be kind to him, Sylvia. Life's a long agony to him when he's with strangers."
"I hate shy people," she repeated. "It's so silly to be awkward."
"He's not awkward. Incidentally, what a number of things you find time to hate!"
"I know. I'm composed entirely of hates and bad tempers. And I hate myself more than anybody else."
"Why?"