So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. “It’s Ennison, isn’t it?” he exclaimed. He was afraid if he stayed that he would make a fool of himself. He lowered her neck before her, and she noticed a bizarre urge to bite him rising from her mind like an itch.
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