Sylvester promised, and a few moments later found himself standing alone, wrapped in gloomy wonder at the inanity of life. A voice roused him from his meditation.
“Good-evening, Sylvester.”
He started and found Ella by his side. She looked at him boldly, with a little triumphant gleam of defiance. He shook hands, explained that his object in accepting the invitation was to offer her his congratulations. Social convention required the formula. Ella's ear, however, detected an ironical note, and the blood came swiftly to her cheeks.
“For a man who scorns hypocrisy—” she began; then checked herself. His regard of grave inquiry made her swiftly conscious of a false position, and her cheeks flamed hotter.
“You know what I mean,” she said. “You don't really congratulate me.”
“Why do you say so?”
“I feel that you are inimical to me, and you have never liked Roderick.”
“One can wish one's enemies well,” he remarked with a half-smile.
“Why should we be your enemies? You should hear how differently Roderick speaks of you.”
“My dear Ella,” replied Sylvester, “I have not uttered a single word against Roderick. It would be in very bad taste for me to do so. I have known him for many years, and we still meet. But he is not an intimate friend of mine.”