She found Michael Moon standing under the garden tree, looking over the hedge; hunched like a bird of prey, with his large pipe hanging down his long blue chin. The very hardness of his expression pleased her, after the nonsense of the new engagement and the shilly-shallying of her other friends.

“I am sorry I was cross, Mr. Moon,” she said frankly. “I hated you for being a cynic; but I’ve been well punished, for I want a cynic just now. I’ve had my fill of sentiment⁠—I’m fed up with it. The world’s gone mad, Mr. Moon⁠—all except the cynics, I think. That maniac Smith wants to marry my old friend Mary, and she⁠—and she⁠—doesn’t seem to mind.”