He gave the order to the coachman, who turned back through the Place de la Concorde and took them past the Tuileries and the great mass of the Louvre and along the quays in the direction of Auteuil.
“What do you think of the Clavering woman?” asked Thornton. “Not much, eh?”
“I can't say that I like her. Perhaps I oughtn't to say it, as she is a friend of yours, but—she doesn't please me.”
“Well, I can't say that she does me now. She never was a beauty, but she has sadly fallen off the last few years. She thinks herself so deuced superior. And she isn't, by Jove! Still she is amusing, you know, and that is a quality that covers a multitude of sins. But other women can't understand her. She was loathed by them all in Cairo, so you are not alone in your antipathy.”
There was a long silence. Thornton drew her closer to his side and took her hand in his. Clytie felt somewhat hurt. It was not flattering to be grouped with the other women in Cairo, however estimable they may have been in their non-appreciation of Mrs. Clavering. They drove on, and began to talk of different subjects, disconnectedly, without much interest. Finally Thornton came back to the Claverings.
“By the way, I suppose you'll dine with them, as they were civil enough to ask us.”
“Certainly, if you wish it and it gives you any pleasure. Perhaps I may like her better when I know more of her.”
“You see, you can't drop people because you don't happen to take a violent fancy to them,” he said rather lamely. And then he added:
“I wish you had let me ask them to supper.”
“Why?”