Part 2 (1/2)

”I dispute that,” he said at once. ”It is only the bores who are ever bored.”

”And I dispute that,” she replied, without turning, ”of necessity, in self-defence.”

He leaned forward to catch the light upon her profile. ”You are bored?”

She smiled faintly in the gloom. ”That is why I have engaged the services of a jester.”

”By Jove,” he said, ”I'm glad you pitched on me.”

She made a slight movement of impatience. ”Isn't it rather futile to say that sort of thing?”

”Why?” he asked.

”Because you know quite well it was not a matter of choice.”

”Rather a matter of _manque de mieux_?” he suggested coolly.

She turned from her contemplation of the crowd below. ”I am not going to contradict you,” she said, ”I never foster _amour propre_ in a man. It is always a plant of hardy growth.”

”'Hardy' is not the word,” he declared. ”Say 'rank,' and you will be nearer the mark. I fully endorse your opinion. We are a race of conceited, egotistical jackanapeses, and we all think we are going to lick creation till a pretty woman comes along and makes us dance to her piping like a row of painted marionettes. But is the pretty woman any the happier, do you think, for tumbling us thus ruthlessly off our pedestals? I sometimes wonder if the sight of the sawdust doesn't make her wish she hadn't.”

The drawl in his voice was very apparent as he uttered the last sentence.

His chin was propped upon his hands. He was obviously studying her with a deliberate criticism that observed and considered every detail.

But his scrutiny held without embarra.s.sing her. She met it with no conscious effort.

”I can't bear cynicism,” she told him frankly.

He shrugged his shoulders. ”Cynics--real cynics--never can.”

”But I am not a cynic.”

”Are you sure of that?”

”Yes, quite sure.”

”And yet you tell me that you never take the trouble to flatter the inferior male. That's conflicting evidence, you know. Are you a man-hater, by the way?”

She s.h.i.+vered as if at a sudden draught. ”I'm not prepared to answer that question off-hand.” she said.

”Very prudent of you!” he commented. ”Do you know I owe you an apology?”

”I shouldn't have said so.”

”No? Well, let me confess. I'm rather good at confessing. I didn't believe you just now when you said you were twenty-five. Now I do. That single streak of prudence was proof absolute and convincing.”

”I usually tell the truth,” she said somewhat stiffly.

”Yes, it takes a genius to lie properly. I am not so good at it myself as I should like to be. But a woman of twenty-five ought not to look like a princess of eighteen--a tired princess moreover, who ought to have been sent to bed long ago.”