An hour later the drawing-room was filled with the evening guests, mostly men. Women archaeologists are scarce. The sentiment with which they inwrap relics of the past harms the pure scientific spirit of inquiry. Thus Mr. Farquharson to Clytie, briefly explanative. She laughed, reminded him how lately in a sentimental mood he had accused women of lack of imagination; she reproached him for inconsistency.
“Inconsistency is a principle of the art of living,” he replied epigrammatically, moving away.
The men stood in groups about the room chatting on personalities, examining the display of coin-cases arranged here and there upon the tables, each under the soothing light of a shaded lamp. The professor stood by himself on the hearthrug, hemming irritably, anxious to read his paper. The talk was subdued, attitudes formal, a contrast to the ordinary easy abandonment of that drawing-room. The men were of a different type, mostly elderly, sedate. Mrs. Farquharson rested for a moment from her exertions as hostess by Clytie's side.
“Now for a minute's peace. I wish the men would smoke, they all look so woebegone; but George says they mustn't. Now, then, my dear, I haven't seen you for ages, except for those five minutes before dinner; what have you been doing lately?”
“Nothing much—working. Oh! yes, I have, though. I have found a new chum.”
“What is she like?”
“It isn't a she, it's a he.”
“Where does he come from?” asked Mrs. Farquharson, arching her eyebrows.
“From the skies, apparently: in the first case to put out a fire in my room—he lives over me in the attics——”
“Clytie! You must be careful. Who is he? What's his name?”