“You’re just the squeak of a mouse made concrete, Gillian.”
“That’s not such a good line as Browning’s,” she sighed. And he, being a sensual epicure, sighed also, thinking of the great smooth marbly limbs—and for the thousandth time racked his brains for what attracted him so mightily and desperately in this exasperating bit of a creature with—with——
“Well, Theo?” expectantly.
“With remarkably pretty wrists and ankles.”
And: “Go on, Theo,” in complacent appreciation of these. “What next?”)
“Where’s the blanc-mange?” enquired Winnie, whose favourite pudding it was.
Gillian pushed her hands backwards through her hair, in an effort of memory; “I believe I turned it out on the washstand in your room. You’ll find it there when you want it.”
“Why, are you going out again?” as the other rose impetuously from supper.
“I’m not happy about that Deb Marcus kid.... Not my business, but Cliffe is such an irresponsible lunatic—and if even Antonia doesn’t know what he’s saying about it all——”
“Nobody knows but me and him,” said Winifred importantly. “It’s a secret.”