“You do believe in it, then?—that it’s supernatural?”
From his sofa, over his cigarette-smoke, his eye at this met hers with a sort of reminder, half grim, half weary. “Still catechisms?” it asked her.
She laughed, and now he knew that in her laugh he heard bravado.
“As if a game could be!” she answered herself. “At the worst it’s only Cicely’s subconscious trickery. Isn’t it, Cicely? Are you tired? Will you try it? I’m longing for it now. It’s just what we need. It will do us good.”
“I am not tired. But why do you think a game will do us good, Antonia?” Miss Latimer asked.
Antonia looked down at her fondly; but did he not now detect the fever in her eye. “Games are good for dreary people. We are all dreary, aren’t we? I know, at least, that I am. So be kind, both of you, and play with me.”
“Miss Latimer is tired,” said Bevis, looking across at her, feeling reluctance in her colourless replies. “And I’m tired, too. We’d both rather, far, play bridge.”
But to this Miss Latimer at once said coldly: “No, I am not tired. Bridge is the more tiring of the two.”
“Of course it is. We can all go to sleep around the table, if we like. It’s in the corridor, isn’t it? I’ll get it.” Antonia tossed aside her knitting and moved away.
For a moment, after she had left the room, the young man sat on, his hands still clasped behind his head, and contemplated Miss Latimer, meditating a further appeal. But her pale little profile, fixed impassively on the fire, offered no hint of response. Much as she might dislike the game, she would never take sides with him against Antonia. Any appeal that might be made must be to Antonia herself, and, after the moment’s pause, he rose and limped after her.