‘It depends,’ said Catherine, ‘whose.’
‘Yours, of course. You know I mean yours.’
She was quiet a moment, then she said cautiously, ‘I’d call him George.’
He took a quick step forward, before she had time to turn away, and looked at her.
‘You’re laughing,’ he said, his face lighting up. ‘I felt you were. Why, I don’t believe you’re angry at all—I believe you’re glad I’ve come. Catherine, you are glad I’ve come. You’re fed up with Stephen and Virginia, and the old lady with the profile, and I’ve come as a sort of relief. Isn’t it true? You are glad?’
‘I think they’re rather fed up, as you put it, with me,’ said Catherine soberly.
‘Fed up with you? They? That ancient, moulting, feathered tribe?’
He stared at her. ‘Then why do you stay till Monday?’ he asked.
‘Because of Virginia.’
‘You mean she, of course, isn’t fed up.’