Westangle's in that squalid
carryall, such as Miss Shirley's having managed instantly to slip indoors
before the man came out for Verrian's suit-case, and of her having got to
her own appointed place long before there was any descent of the company
to the afternoon tea.
It was not for him now to undo all that and begin the laughing at the
affair, which she had pathetically intimated that she would rather some
one else should begin. He recoiled from his imprudence with a shock, but
he had the pleasure of having mystified Miss Macroyd. He felt dismissal
in the roving eye which she cast from him round the room, and he
willingly let another young man replace him at her side.
Yet he was not altogether satisfied. A certain meaner self that there
was in him was not pleased with his relegation even merely in his own
consciousness to the championship of a girl who was going to make her
living in a sort of menial way. It had better be owned for him that, in
his visions of literary glory, he had figured in social triumphs which,
though vague, were resplendent with the glitter of smart circles. He had
been so ignorant of such circles as to suppose they would have some use
for him as a brilliant young author; and though he was outwearing this
illusion, he still would not have liked a girl like Julia Macroyd, whose
family, if not smart, was at least chic, to know that he had come to the
house with a professional mistress of the revels, until Miss Shirley
should have approved herself chic, too.
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