CHAPTER X THE LICENCE OF VIRTUE
Irene Kilnorton was in a state of pardonable irritation; just now she often inclined to irritation, but the immediate cause of this fit and its sufficient excuse lay in Babba Flint's behaviour. If only he could have believed it, he always annoyed her; but it was outrageous beyond the common to come on her "At Home" day, and openly scout her most interesting, most exciting, most comforting piece of news. He stuck his glass in his eye, stared through it an instant, and dropped it with an air of contemptuous incredulity.
"She told me herself," said Irene angrily. "I suppose that's pretty good authority."
"The very worst," retorted Babba calmly. "She's just the person who has an interest in spreading the idea. Mind you, I don't say he doesn't exist; I reserve judgment as to that because I'm aware that he used to. But I do say he won't turn up, and I'm willing to take any reasonable bet on the subject. In fact the whole thing is as plain as a pikestaff."
"What whole thing?" She spoke low, she did not want the rest to hear.
Babba spread his hands in a deprecating toleration for his hostess' density.
"She's everywhere with Mead," he said. "Drives to the theatre with him, you know, walks with him, talks about him."
"That doesn't explain anything, even if it's true."