‘Hullo. You look nice,’ observed Francis, with that accent of surprise which is not flattering.

‘Do I? Good.’

His compliments were not frequent, and this one soothed her still more. It, and her dress, and the may tree, almost succeeded in banishing her sadness, and when the first guests arrived, Sophia announced that she was quite looking forward to the party.

Celia said that she was, too, but her young man said nothing. He was rather good at doing that; Sophia used to say that she could never decide whether she preferred him to imply his disapproval by silence or by some burst of the stunning candour with which he thought it necessary to dynamite his way through the effete thickets of social life. He was a very serious young man of twenty-three, who was taking a degree in Economics at the same school as Celia. It was generally supposed, even by Celia, that he was in love with her, but he had the oddest ways of showing it. He did not seem to like her very much, which distressed her, for she was a simple and tender person and ready to be happy, when her young men allowed her to be. But she had an unfortunate capacity for attracting young men who suffered with their souls; or who allowed their bodies to get entangled with their souls while their intellects danced ring-a-roses round the barbed entanglements; and in these circumstances it is not easy for a love affair to be happy.

Celia conveyed the information to Sophia that Capel was not feeling party-ish this evening.

‘He nearly didn’t come, poor dear,’ breathed Celia, carefully not looking at Capel while she chose a chocolate biscuit, ‘we had rather a scene.’

‘Strange – strange!’ retorted Sophia, who found Capel a trial. ‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘Oh … me. He says I’ve got such a strong personality that I subconsciously want to dominate him, and he feels it subconsciously, but consciously I give way to him, and that isn’t really what I want to do, and he knows it. And part of his nature wants to give way, too; but the subconscious part resents it. It’s his masculine pride, you see. And if he gives way, I don’t really like it. At least, he says I don’t, but he never does give way, so I can’t really tell whether I like it or not, can I?’

‘He’s a selfish little beast, and he pokes about in his own mind too much. That’s all that’s the matter with him, and for two pins I’d tell him so.’

‘Oh no, Sophia. It isn’t as simple as that, really. Poor dear, he’s still rather adolescent in some ways, I’m afraid. Only I do wish he wouldn’t make scenes. I do so hate them.’

Sophia glanced across at the large, square face of Capel. It was such a serious face; beside it the elegant young hawkish face of Francis looked ten years older in experience, in gaiety, in decisiveness. Capel’s very complexities were only simplicities which he had allowed from a false sense of their importance to get into a muddle.