“With whom?”
“Madala Grey, of course.”
I said—
“Who is Madala Grey?”
The Baxter girl had sunk into the cushions until she was prone. I had been wondering with the bit of mind that wasn’t listening what the people at home would have said to her, with her cobweb stockings (it was November) and her coloured combs and her sprawl. It was a relief to see her sit up suddenly.
“‘Who’s Madala Grey!’” Her mouth stayed open after she’d finished the sentence.
“Yes,” I said. “Who is she?”
“You mean to say you’ve never heard of Madala Grey? You’ve never read Eden Walls? Is there anyone in England who hasn’t read Eden Walls?”
“Heaps,” I said. She annoyed me. She—they—they all thought me a fool at Anita’s.
The Baxter girl sighed luxuriously.