Cicely rose to her feet and smoothed down her dress.
“Why,” she said, “should we do anything?”
“Because we get on so well. You don’t want to be loved, because men mean nothing to you. Well, I should think I’m one of the few men living who could withstand successfully your physical and mental charms. Besides, you find me convenient—very convenient. On the other hand, while I’ve not the slightest desire to bear down any woman, most of the women I know seem to expect to be overwhelmed. Of course I except my Aunt Ira. She’s in a class of her own.”
“Is she so strong?” said Cicely.
“It’s not exactly strength. It’s sheer weight. She’s rather like lava. Her personality submerges—flattens. After half an hour of her I’m all over at the knees. Add to this that she’s a bigoted mid-Victorian, has made a will in my favour and is enormously rich, when you’ll see that our relations are delicate indeed. She’s very hot on what she calls ‘round’ dances and the decay of chaperonage.”
“She would like Biarritz, wouldn’t she?” said Miss Voile.
Her companion shuddered.
“The bare idea,” he said, “is bad for my heart. What were we saying? Oh, I know. I was indicating the convenience of our future conjunction.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Cicely slowly. “Let’s get up early and go up into the mountains.”
“What exactly,” said Rage, “do you mean by ‘early’? By the time I’m able to differentiate between the bell and light switches which dangle over my bed, and so obtain breakfast, it’s usually about eight.”