he inserted his monocle and replaced his handkerchief in his pocket. Squaring his shoulders, he marched in—almost militarily, he flattered himself. His hostess was standing near the window, at the other side of the room. He advanced towards her, already, though she had not yet seen him, mechanically smiling his greetings. The room was crowded, hot, and misty with cigarette smoke. The noise was almost palpable; Gregory felt as though he were pushing his way laboriously through some denser element. Neck-deep, he waded through noise, still holding preciously above the flood his smile. He presented it, intact, to his hostess.
'Good evening, Hermione.'
'Ah, Gregory. How delightful! Good evening.'
'I adore your dress," said Gregory, conscientiously following the advice of the enviably successful friend who had told him that one should never neglect to pay a compliment, however manifestly insincere. It wasn't a bad dress, for that matter. But, of course, poor dear Hermione contrived to ruin anything she put on. She was quite malignantly ungraceful and ugly—on purpose, it always seemed to Gregory. 'Too lovely,' he cooed in his rather high voice.
Hermione smiled with pleasure. 'I'm so glad,' she began. But before she could get any further, a loud voice, nasally chanting, interrupted her.
'Behold the monster Polypheme, behold the monster Polypheme,' it quoted, musically, from Acis and Galatea.
Gregory flushed. A large hand slapped him in the middle of the back, below the shoulder blades. His body emitted the drum-like thud of a patted retriever.
'Well, Polypheme;' the voice had ceased to sing and was conversational, 'well, Polypheme, how are you?'
'Very well, thanks,' Gregory replied, without looking round. It was that drunken South African brute, Paxton. 'Very well, thanks, Silenus,' he added.
