Owen sat
criticising, watching him rather cynically, interested in his youth
and in his thick, rebellious hair, flowing upwards from a white
forehead. The full-fleshed face, lit with nervous, grey eyes,
reminded Owen of a Roman bust. "A young Roman emperor," he said to
himself, and he seemed to understand Evelyn's love of Ulick. Would
that she had continued to love this young pagan! Far better than to
have been duped by that grey, skinny Christian. And he listened to
Ulick, admiring his independent thought, his flashes of wit.
Ulick was telling stories of an opera company to which it was likely
he would be appointed secretary. A very unlikely thing indeed to
happen, Owen thought, if the company were assembled outside the
windows, within hearing of the stories which Ulick was telling about
them. Very amusing were the young man's anecdotes and comments, but
it seemed to Owen as if he would never cease talking; and Innes,
though seeming to enjoy the young man's wit, seemed to feel with Owen
that something must be done to bring it to an end.
"We shall be here all the afternoon listening to you, Ulick. I don't
know if Sir Owen has anything else to do, but I have some parts to
copy; there is a rehearsal to-night.
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