I needed not to hesitate one whit, but with a nudge indicated Belvoir. “He seems made to fit into any background.”
Maryvale laughed long and with absolute silence. “Yes, yes,” he whispered, “a family man, I grant you, with legitimate children, a householder in suburbia—so far so good. That’s irony in excelso. But for deep down conformity of spirit, like the thousand and one of his neighbours in Golders Green, ye gods! Why, man, he’s the most radical wight in England—a stick of dynamite!”
“He!”
“Haven’t you read his ‘Bypaths’?”
“His! Good God!”
Then from the farther table came a cackle from Ludlow: “Well, I say it is so! . . . Saint Paul knew as much psychology as any of your puffed-up pedagogues.”
Alberta Pendleton (who was his partner) said promptly, “Did you play the deuce?” Our hostess is more tactful than her husband.
Belvoir gave a thin Italian sort of snicker. “He’s trying to,” he said.
I just made out the low, luscious voice of Mrs. Belvoir: “Ted, that wasn’t good. Half a crown, please.”
“The family penalty for a pun,” explained Maryvale.