"My dear, she has lovely, weary manners and lovely, weary eyes, with an expression as if she doesn't take any interest in anything; but you bet she does!" said Beryl, whose language always contained a somewhat sporting flavour. "You bet she takes an interest in clothes and men and everything that's going! Nothing much gets past those weary eyes. And she is as chic as the deuce. Never have we seen such clothes up here. She smells so delicious, too—not scented, you know, but just little faint puffs of fragrance. I wish I knew how to do it. But I don't think you can do it without sachets in your corsets and a maid to sew them into all your clothes, and salts and perfumes for your bath, and plenty of tin to keep it all going! Blow! How can poverty-stricken wretches like us contend with that kind of thing, I'd like to know?"
"We don't have to contend with it," said Gay indifferently.
The two girls were sitting in Berlie's mother's private sitting-room upstairs. Gay was in riding-kit and had come to beguile Berlie to go for a canter.
"Oh, don't we?" said the latter emphatically. "You should just see the pile of men that came in to lunch here today—just to have a look at her. The story of her glory has gone forth. She came over to our table and asked if we minded if she sat with us, and then she wound her lovely manners all around mother so that mum thinks she's a dream and an angel. But I don't cotton to her much, Gay—and I can feel she doesn't like me, either, though she was as sweet as honey. My dear, she will nobble all our men—I feel it in my bones."
"Let her," said Gay listlessly.
"She even has old Lundi Druro crumpled up—what do you think of that?" Gay's charming face turned to a mask. "That gives you an idea of her power," continued Beryl dolorously, "if she can keep Lundi Druro amused. She is sitting in the lounge with him now. They've been there ever since lunch, and he was to have gone out to his mine early this morning."
Gay jumped up from her chair.
"Are you coming for that ride or not, Berlie? I'm sick of scorching indoors." There were, indeed, two spots of flame in her cheeks.
"Oh, Gay, I can't; I am too G. I. for anything." "G. I." is Rhodesian for "gone in," a common condition for both men and women and things in that sprightly land of nicknames and nick-phrases.
"I'm off, then," said Gay hurriedly.