She was most decidedly a snob, but not of an objectionable kind. As a matter of fact, I have always considered well-bred snobs rather pleasant people, and have often wondered whether they would have been as well bred if they had not been snobs. People who love the pleasantly decorative in life have at least taste, and the preference for titles, fine surroundings and social paraphernalia may be a form of art. “Do you and Lionel ever see each other in the City?” asked Sibella, who, I had already remarked, was not so much in love that she could refrain from teasing her lover. “Never,” said Lionel shortly. “For eighteen months I hardly went near the City,” I answered. “Doing other things?” asked Lionel, in an unpleasant tone. “Living on my capital,” I answered airily, giving him a keen, steady glance of daring. “It was the most beautiful time I have ever had, and I don’t regret it. It will never come again, and I might have spent it in a dingy City office.” “Earning your living,” put in Lionel. “There was no necessity,” I laughed. Grahame gazed at Lionel in haughty inquiry as if desirous of knowing what he meant by being rude to his guest. In fact, Lionel’s airs of intimacy and general at-homeness obviously irritated Grahame not less than the constant use of his Christian name. I declined to be drawn into displaying the least sign of annoyance, although Holland seized every opportunity to deliver innuendo or satire, the latter weapon in his hands becoming more often than not mere clumsy facetiousness. I made a point of being gay, and without talking of my prospects in Mr. Gascoyne’s firm took very good care to leave the impression that it was their promising nature that accounted for my good-humour. I managed by judicious circumlocution and tact to bring the conversation round to reminiscences, throwing them far enough back to prevent his joining in, and slyly flattering Sibella on the subject of her childish achievements so that she revived memories with zest, and became engrossed with the recapitulation of events and bygone adventures in which I, and not Lionel Holland, appeared as her cavalier. “I believe Lionel is getting jealous,” she remarked towards the end of supper, noticing her lover’s sulky taciturnity. I had been secretly sure of that fact for the last twenty minutes, and had been enjoying a discomfiture which the rest of the company had not appreciated. He had also, as I perceived, grasped that whenever I chose I was quick and dexterous enough to leave him conversationally a laggard every time.