. [With a clear look] Charles!

SIR CHARLES. What was she like when you were kids?

HUNTINGDON. Oh, all right. Could be rather a little devil, of
course, when her monkey was up.

SIR CHARLES. I'm fond of her. Nothing she wants that she hasn't
got, is there?

HUNTINGDON. Never heard her say so.

SIR CHARLES. [Dimly] I don't know whether old George is a bit too
matter of fact for her. H'm?

[A short silence.]

LADY DEDMOND. There's a Mr. Malise coming here to-night. I forget
if you know him.

HUNTINGDON. Yes. Rather a thorough-bred mongrel.

LADY DEDMOND. He's literary. [With hesitation] You--you don't
think he--puts--er--ideas into her head?

HUNTINGDON. I asked Greyman, the novelist, about him; seems he's a
bit of an Ishmaelite, even among those fellows. Can't see Clare----

LADY DEDMOND. No. Only, the great thing is that she shouldn't be
encouraged. Listen!--It is her-coming in. I can hear their voices.
Gone to her room. What a blessing that man isn't here yet! [The
door bell rings] Tt! There he is, I expect.

SIR CHARLES. What are we goin' to say?

HUNTINGDON. Say they're dining out, and we're not to wait Bridge for
them.

SIR CHARLES. Good!

The door is opened, and PAYNTER announces "Mr. Kenneth Malise."
MALISE enters. He is a tall man, about thirty-five, with a
strongly marked, dark, irregular, ironic face, and eyes which
seem to have needles in their pupils. His thick hair is rather
untidy, and his dress clothes not too new.

LADY DEDMOND. How do you do? My son and daughter-in-law are so very
sorry. They'll be here directly.

[MALISE bows with a queer, curly smile.]

SIR CHARLES. [Shaking hands] How d'you do, sir?

HUNTINGDON. We've met, I think.

He gives MALISE that peculiar smiling stare, which seems to warn
the person bowed to of the sort of person he is. MALISE'S eyes
sparkle.

LADY DEDMOND. Clare will be so grieved. One of those invitations

MALISE. On the spur of the moment.

SIR CHARLES. You play Bridge, sir?

MALISE. Afraid not!

SIR CHARLES. Don't mean that? Then we shall have to wait for 'em.

LADY DEDMOND. I forget, Mr. Malise--you write, don't you?

MALISE. Such is my weakness.

LADY DEDMOND. Delightful profession.

SIR CHARLES. Doesn't tie you! What!

MALISE. Only by the head.

SIR CHARLES. I'm always thinkin' of writin' my experiences.

MALISE. Indeed!