Cliffe grunted and ran up to the third floor, then down again.
“Not a sign of her. At least—no—the whole bally floor is littered with signs of her, but that’s all. Is she out? She expected me and Antonia to-night to go to the Vermilion Club, but that’s nothing; no inconvenience. Winnie, do wake up—you’ve grown fatter.”
“Theo says I’ve grown thinner,” said Winnie unperturbed.
“Theo was pulling your leg, my dear.”
“Was he? Yes, he often does. He is a caution....”
“Where’s Gillian?” shouted Cliffe, whom, strangely, this placid young woman could always irritate to a frenzy—(“If you poke her mind you only dimple the suet”—he complained to Antonia). “Where’s Gillian? She invited Antonia and me to supper.”
“I expect she forgot,” lazily, “anyway, Antonia hasn’t come, so it doesn’t matter.”
“I’ve come, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” Winnie sighed, and fingered her novelette.
“Well—I’m off again. Can’t waste a moment. Tell Gillian that we’re in a terrible state; Antonia has had to run round to Zoe—Deb Marcus is missing from home since yesterday—no; the day before—since days——” he paused, for sensation.