“I refused to be drawn. Suddenly, in the middle of lunch she asked me in her Cheltenham voice ‘What do you do with your leishah?’ I think she really wanted statistics; gutter-snipe statistics.”
“She’s an enchantress. No end of a lark, really. She runs old Grimshaw. Runs everybody. You’re rather like her you know. You’ve got the elements, with your wrist-watch. What did you say?”
“Nothing. I haven’t the faintest idea what I do with my leisure. Besides I can’t talk about real things to a bayonet. She is fascinating, though.”
“She’s a gypsy. When she looks at one ... with that brown smile ... one could do anything for her.”
“There you are. Your smiles.... But he’s the most perfect darling. Absolutely sincere. A Breton peasant. I talked to him about some of your definitions. Not as yours. As mine.”
“Never mind. He knew where they came from.”
“Not at all. Only those I thought I agreed with. And he’s given me quite a fresh view of the Lycurgans.”
“Now don’t you go and desert.”
“Well he must be either right or wrong.”
“What a damned silly thing to say. Oh what a damned silly thing to say.”