’ ‘And your precious vicomte didn’t wish for the English one,’ said Charvill, acid in his voice. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. ‘Both of them so wise after the event. Mirrors. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching.
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