"'Marie Grubbe' doesn't sound a very aesthetic title,
but the book is quite in your line--a wonderfully delicate bit of
work."
"Don't imagine, Mrs. Quarrier," pleaded Glazzard, "that I am what is
called an aesthete. The thing is an abomination to me."
"Oh, you go tolerably far in that direction!" cried Denzil,
laughing. "True, you don't let your hair grow, and in general make
an ass of yourself; but there's a good deal of preciosity about you,
you know."
Seeing that Mr. Glazzard's crown showed an incipient baldness, the
allusion to his hair was perhaps unfortunate. Lilian fancied that
her guest betrayed a slight annoyance; she at once interposed with a
remark that led away from such dangerous ground. It seemed to her
(she had already received the impression from Quarrier's talk of the
evening before) that Denzil behaved to his friend with an air of
bantering superiority which it was not easy to account for. Mr.
Glazzard, so far as she could yet judge, was by no means the kind of
man to be dealt with in this tone; she thought him rather disposed
to pride than to an excess of humility, and saw in his face an
occasional melancholy which inspired her with interest and respect.
A female servant (the vacancy made by Lilian's self-denying kindness
had been hastily supplied) appeared with summons to dinner. Mr.
Glazzard offered an arm to his hostess, and Quarrier followed with a
look of smiling pleasure.
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