“That woman said she was his wife,” she remarked quietly.
“I say! d’you think it was all my eye and Betty Martin?”
“I don’t know. But it was an awkward sort of position for him.”
“Lord, yes!” said Olive more emphatically than ever, and Lydia felt that any humiliation attaching to the débâcle had been effectually transferred, so far as Olive’s interpretation of it was concerned, from herself to the Greek deceiver.
“Of course, it doesn’t matter to you, Lyd—a good-looking gurl like you,” said Olive simply.
Lydia felt that after this she could well afford to change the conversation.
She made inquiries about Beatrice.
“Oh, just rotting about,” said Olive discontentedly. “I wish she and I could do something for ourselves, the way you do, but the old birds wouldn’t hear of it. Besides, I don’t know what we could do, either of us. Bee plays hockey whenever she gets the chance, of course, and goes to all the hops. She’s taken up dancing like anything.”
“And haven’t you?”
“Can’t,” said Olive briefly. “They’re scared of me going off like the pater’s sister. Chest, you know. But Beatrice is as strong as a horse. You know she’s sort of engaged?”