Detestation came of itself, naturally.
'Then let me be sure I do not ask any of your pet aversions,' said Mr.
Smithson. 'You met Mr. Plantagenet Parsons, the theatrical critic, at my
house. Shall we have him?'
'I like all amusing people.'
'And Horace Meander, the poet. Shall we have him? He is brimful of
conceits and affectations, but he's a tremendous joke.'
'Mr. Meander is charming.'
'Suppose we ask Mostyn and his wife? Her scraps of science are rather
good fun.'
'I haven't the faintest objection to the Mostyns,' replied Lesbia. 'But
who are "we"?'
'We are you and I, for the nonce. The invitations will be issued
ostensibly by me, but they will really emanate from you.'
'I am to be the shadow behind the throne,' said Lesbia. 'How
delightful!'
'I would rather you were the sovereign ruler, on the throne,' answered
Smithson, tenderly. 'That throne shall be empty till you fill it.'
'Please go on with your list of people,' said Lesbia, checking this gush
of sentiment.
She began to feel somehow that she was drifting from all her moorings,
that in accepting this invitation to Rood Hall she was allowing herself
to be ensnared into an alliance about which she was still doubtful.
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