“Gillian!” Antonia stopped short. She looked at the maid—then at Deb. A variety of baffling expressions flitted across her face.... “Has she been there long?”
“Oh yes, Miss, nearly an hour.” The maid disappeared.
“I’m so glad—I wanted to meet her.” Deb was frankly eager for the long-deferred encounter ... but Antonia was behaving strangely; standing rigid and immobile, her slender eyebrows contracted as in some desperate effort to rally a final expedient against fate. With a little sigh she let her clenched hands fall open in surrender....
“Come along,” and moved towards the passage which led down the garden towards the studio.
The large sky-lit spaces were empty. A scrawled note lay on the box of oil-tubes: “Sorry—couldn’t wait any longer. Come on Tuesday evening if you can. G.M.S.” Antonia read aloud. The suspended colour had flooded back to her face drowning it in carmine. She crumpled the paper into a ball and flung it towards the waste-paper basket. Her aim just missed.
“Take off your hat, Deb,” she cried cheerfully.
“Let’s see the celebrity’s handwriting.” Deb picked up Gillian’s note and read: “Sorry, couldn’t wait any longer. Come on Tuesday evening if you can, and bring Deb Marcus. Cliffe says I’d like her. G.M.S.”
“Antonia!”
“Yes?” Antonia’s back was turned. She was apparently absorbed in scraping a palette.
“Why did you—Antonia, I want to know Gillian Sherwood. Why won’t you let me?”