Thus he told her all about it—how he had arranged everything, got a room, meant to have his name painted on the door, meant to make his parents take their holiday on the north-east coast for a change, so that he could study the site, meant to work like a hundred devils, etc. He saw with satisfaction that the arrogant, wilful creature was impressed.
She said:
"Now listen to me. You'll win that competition."
"I shan't," he said. "But it's worth trying, for the experience—that's what Enwright says."
She said:
"I don't care a fig what Enwright says. You'll win that competition. I'm always right when I sort of feel—you know."
For the moment he believed in the miraculous, inexplicable intuitions of women.
"Oh!" she cried, as the invisible orchestra started a new tune. "Do you know that? It's the first time I've heard it in London. It's the machiche . It's all over Paris. I think it's the most wonderful tune in the world." Her body swayed; her foot tapped.
George listened. Yes, it was a maddening tune.
"It is," he agreed eagerly.