“Did you like it?”
“Have you seen Niagara?”
“Yes.”
“Did you like it?”
“I'm so glad,” she cried. “I thought perhaps——” she broke off. “Why haven't you tried to see me?”
“There are certain conventions.”
“I know,” she said. “They're idiotic.”
“There's also Mrs. Faversham,” said I.
“Mother is the dearest thing in life,” she replied, “but Mrs. Faversham is a convention.” She came nearer to me, in order to allow a freer passage down the gangway and also in order to be out of earshot of an elderly woman who was obviously accompanying her. “Simon, I've been a good friend to you. I believe in you. Nothing will shake my convictions. You couldn't look into my eyes like that if—well—you know.”
“I couldn't,” said I.