"I don't know what you're driving at," said Evie in a fret, "you don't mean—? I'm a virgin, if that is what you mean," she said crudely.
Christina snorted. "Then what in hell are you snivelling about?" she demanded savagely. She was not unreasonably irritated.
"I haven't—seen—Ronnie—for a week!" sobbed the girl.
"I wish to God you'd never seen him," snapped Christina and wished she hadn't, for the next minute Evie was in bed with her, in her arms.
"I'm so unhappy—I wish I hadn't met him, too—I know that it isn't right, Chris—I know it isn't—I know I shall never be happy. He is so much above me—and I'm so ignorant—such—a—such a shop girl."
Christina cuddled the slim figure and kissed her damp face. "You'll get over that, Evie," she said soothingly.
"But I love him so!"
"You don't really—you are too young, Evie—you can't test your feelings. I was reading today about some people who live in Australia, natives, who think that a sort of sour apple is the most lovely fruit in the world. But it is only because they haven't any other kind of fruit. If you go to a poor sort of store to buy a dress, you get to think the best they have in stock is the best you can buy anywhere. It takes a lot of courage to walk out of that shop and find another. After a while you are sure and certain that the dress they show you is lovely. It is only when you put it against the clothes that other women have bought from the better shops, that you see how old-fashioned and tawdry and what an ugly color it is." She waited for an answer, but Evie was asleep.
Ambrose came home early the next day. Every other afternoon he took Christina to Kensington Gardens. He kept the long spinal carriage in a stable and spent at least half an hour in cleaning and polishing the wheels and lacquered panels of the "chariot".
"Shut the door, Ambrose." He obeyed.