Gabriel laughed good-naturedly.
“It would be a great breach of etiquette, I suppose,” he said. “Hallo, I see the others are rising. I think it is time we joined the ladies.”
In the drawing-room Judith was at the piano, accompanying herself to the quaint measure of an old song. After the gentleman had entered her place was usurped by Miss Blanche Gusset, who dashed volubly into the strenuous sentiment of a plantation ditty. In a panelled “cosey corner” Mrs. Marjoy and Mrs. Mince sat in neighborly isolation, comparing feminine criticisms. Mrs. Marjoy was a lady who possessed no single talent herself and always sneered at the accomplishments of others.
Gabriel surrendered himself to Ophelia Gusset. She was seated alone on a sofa to the left of the fire. Ophelia was not a woman’s woman in the social sense; her virtues were egotistical and unexpansive. She found men more appreciative, less critical, more sympathetic.
“What selfish beings you men are,” she observed.
“Why such cynicism?”
“You abandon us for tobacco. I am sure you have been talking for forty minutes.”
“Politics proved powerful.”
“I did not know you were a politician.”
“No, I am not patriotic with my tongue. Mr. Mince and I had an argument on street-preaching. How easy it is to offend some people.”