“There's no such thing as unintelligent conversation,” he declared.
“For a man like you there must be.”
“I could hold an intelligent conversation with a rabbit,” said Jimmie.
Norma Hardacre, on arriving home, entered the drawing-room, where her mother was reading a novel.
“Well?” said Mrs. Hardacre, looking up.
Norma threw her white silk cloak over the back of a chair.
“Connie sent her love to you.”
“Is that all you have to say?” asked her mother, sharply. She was a faded woman who had once possessed beauty of a cold, severe type; but the years had pinched and hardened her features, as they had pinched and hardened her heart. Her eyes were of that steel grey which the light of laughter seldom softens, and her smile was but a contraction of the muscles of the lips. Even this perfunctory tribute to politeness which had greeted Norma's entrance vanished at the second question.
“Morland King drove me home. What a difference there is between a private brougham and the beastly things we get from the livery-stable!”
“He has said nothing?”