“But you are only very few London years old yet, Ivor! and she is only just back from two years near Naples.”
“That,” said Ivor, “must be one of those facts you were shy of theorising about.”
“You would learn more,” Trevor gently warned him, “if you understood less, young man.”
“She has a husband,” he condescended to add, “who explores Asia. She explores everything else. He is at present in London, and at this very party, I think, but she does not cease to explore. And so he will go away again, because he is that kind of man.”
“And I,” he said, emptying his glass, “will now go upstairs to ask her to dance with me.”
“Telling her, please,” Ivor seriously detained him, and drew a deep breath, “that her unknown voice was much appreciated and its absence deeply regretted, even during a conversation with yourself.”
“Quite,” said Trevor sombrely. “But, on the other hand, the action of eggs on the liver has given rise to endless discussion.”
It was as Gerald Trevor reached the head of the stairs leading to the ballroom that he saw Magdalen Gray coming down the flight above, with Rodney West. Her dress, he thought, is of the colour of crushed orchids: it would be ... something just a bit rank....
“Magdalen!” he greeted her from below; “the psychological moment has now come for you and me to take the floor together.”
“And Gerald!” the light voice said gaily; “they’re just beginning a lovely waltz with a beard on it, to suit and soothe the dignity of your years....”