“To get as much out of life as possible.”
“That's scarcely orthodox.”
The accompanying smile was a touch of the curb on Clytie. She paused. There was an interval of dining. Then she turned to reply to a remark of the professor. Mrs. Farquharson, who hitherto had steered skilfully through the shoals of antiquity, was run aground by Colonel Chowder. Clytie was astonished to hear her friend talking learnedly of coins and Latin inscriptions. She ran discursively over the points of George's collection, toning her speech with a light counterpoint of mockery, so that its echo should reach Clytie's ears. Mrs. Chowder bubbled domesticity over the Egyptologist; spoke of her sons, the difficulty of army examinations. She was bent upon their getting into the service, also upon their marrying young. The reconciliation of these incongruities was the problem offered for Mr. Vansittart's solution.
Clytie again turned to Mr. Treherne.
“Do you often come here? I am almost of the house and I have never met you.”
“Once before, on a similar occasion—almost the same circle. A common hobby brings the most divergent people together.”
“It is a pity you and I have not got one,” said Clytie, flashing a malicious glance at him.
“Perhaps we have. What do you mostly do?”
“Paint—for my living.”
“An artist! What is your line?”