"Lying on your back, and wondering how many months there are in a week?"
"A week? Is it only a week? How on earth can you be sure, when one day's so exactly like another?"
"Tomorrow won't be. There's the blow-out for Amalasuntha, and dancing afterward. Mother's idea of the simple life."
"Well, all your mother's ideas are simple." Lita yawned, her pale pink mouth drooping like a faded flower. "Besides, it's ages till tomorrow. Where's your father? He was going to take me for a spin in the new Buick."
"He's broken his promise, then. Deserted us all and sneaked off to Greystock on his lone."
A faint redness rose to Lita's cheek-bones. "Greystock and Gladys Toy? Is that his idea of the simple life? About on a par with your mother's... Did you ever notice the Toy ankles?"
Nona smiled. "They're not unnoticeable. But you forget that father's getting to be an old gentleman... Fathers mustn't be choosers..."
Lita made a slight grimace. "Oh, he could do better than that. There's old Cosby, who looks heaps older—didn't he want to marry you? ... Nona, you darling, let's take the Ford and run over to Greenwich for dinner. Would your mother so very much mind? Does she want us here the whole blessed time?"
"I'll go and ask her. But on a Friday night the Country Club will be as dead as the moon. Only a few old ladies playing bridge."
"Well, then we'll have the floor to ourselves. I want a good practice, and it's a ripping floor. We can dance with the waiters. It'll be fun to shock the old ladies. I noticed one of the waiters the other day—must be an Italian—built rather like Tommy Ardwin... I'm sure he dances..."