At times when, for her ends, it seemed worth the exertion, she
would assume a certain wayward sweetness, but her acting was always
clumsy and exaggerated, capable of deceiving no one but a fool.
Cyril, at all events, was not taken in by it. One evening, at a
Bohemian gathering, the entree to which was notoriety rather than
character, they had been talking together for some considerable
time when, wishing to speak to Cyril, I strolled up to join them.
As I came towards them she moved away, her dislike for me being
equal to mine for her; a thing which was, perhaps, well for me.
"Miss Fawley prefers two as company to three," I observed, looking
after her retreating figure.
"I am afraid she finds you what we should call an anti-sympathetic
element," he replied, laughing.
"Do you like her?" I asked him, somewhat bluntly.
His eyes rested upon her as she stood in the doorway, talking to a
small, black-bearded man who had just been introduced to her.
After a few moments she went out upon his arm, and then Cyril
turned to me.
"I think her," he replied, speaking, as was necessary, very low,
"the embodiment of all that is evil in womanhood.
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