'I think I know what you mean.'
Julian, perfectly well aware that she did not, and caring nothing whether she did or no, but carelessly willing to illuminate himself further on the subject, pursued,—
'Her frivolity is a mask. Her instincts alone are deep; how deep, it frightens me to think. She is an artist, although, she may never produce art. She lives in a world of her own, with its own code of morals and values. The Eve that we all know is a sham, the product of her own pride and humour. She is laughing at us all. The Eve we know is entertaining, cynical, selfish, unscrupulous. The real Eve is ...' he paused, and brought out his words with a satisfied finality, 'a rebel and an idealist.'
Then, glancing at his bewildered companion, he laughed and said,—
'Don't believe a word I say, Fru Thyregod: Eve is nineteen, bent only upon enjoying her life to the full.'
He knew, nevertheless, that he had swept together the loose wash of his thought into a concrete channel; and rejoiced.
Fru Thyregod passed to a safer topic. She liked Julian, and understood only one form of excitement.
'You bring with you such a breath of freshness and originality,' she said, sighing, 'into our stale little world.'
His newly-found good humour coaxed him into responsiveness.
'No world can surely ever be stale to you, Fru Thyregod; I always think of you as endowed with perpetual youth and gaiety.'