IV
Deb dawdled along the street, painfully carrying a suit-case. La llorraine had insisted on keeping her to supper, but the Countess was occupying the only vacant room in the house ... anyway, you could always rely on a bed at Zoe’s whenever you turned up—time enough to-morrow to think things over....
Somebody was already on the doorstep pealing at the bell: “The door usually stands open, but it must have got jammed.... Do you want tailor Moses, tailor Jacob, or tailor Isaac?”
“I don’t want a tailor at all, thanks. Not to-night, anyhow. I want Zoe Dene-Cresswell? I wonder if she’s in.”
Again Gillian tugged at the bell. “You look as if you ought to be Deb Marcus.”
“I am.”
“I’m Gillian Sherwood. Put down your suit-case and shake hands. I’ll carry it up for you, if ever they admit us.”
Gillian at last! Deb was first conscious of triumph—followed by a quick pang of guilt. She had not sought out this meeting; it was purely accidental—but what would Antonia say?
Antonia opened the door to them.