“Fishmonger, indeed!” Deb turned Quelle Vie out of the suit-case, “when we want fish, La llorraine, pale and haughty, kisses Manon on the brow and goes out to pawn the Crown Jewels; then she brings home the fish and chips in a piece of newspaper, and we sit down to enjoy it while she tells us sniggering anecdotes of fifth-rate music halls.”
“Look here,” demanded Cliffe, striding into the room, “I’ve been interviewing your brother, Deb, and he says that little bit of mange who calls himself Otto Redbury is responsible for our good name dragged in the mud. He says that verminous Dutchman called on your father full of a ‘brivate peesiness’ just before the row. What I want to know is, who told him? And a rumour has got about that you committed suicide last Friday night. That’s not exactly funny, is it? We’ve got to track those scandals to their sources. You don’t seem to realize how serious it is. Our honour is at stake!”
“It’s so good of you to include mine,” Deb said meekly. “Sit down, Cliffe, and don’t rave. I suppose I started them myself!” And she related her dramatic confession to Samson Phillips. And Cliffe listened, frowning.
“But this is all hypothesis. You mentioned no names to Phillips. You didn’t actually specify that night at Seaview. I’m not reproaching you for the lie itself, Deb—that was merely silly; feminine boasting. But Otto must have got his definite facts from someone else, and I’ve written him an imperative letter on the subject. It begins: ‘Sir’”
“That’s not highly striking or original in itself, Cliffe. Why not ‘Honey?’”
Antonia laughed. “Tell us Otto’s answer when you get it, Cliffe. I respect you for taking a strong line!” But Cliffe did not show them the reply he received from Otto; he studied it in solitude and bewildered indignation. What could the man mean by reminding him of a certain conversation in the Tube? He recalled, with an effort, having once travelled in Otto’s company, and having talked a great deal of fantastic rubbish for Otto’s benefit, but he was quite sure that not the veriest scavenger could have picked Deb’s name from among the rubbish-heap—“I’ve always been very careful over names....”
II
Deb, taking her present emancipation as a vantage-point for a survey of her past, as a whole and in segments and phases, arrived at a conclusion that the general inadequacy on the amorous side was due to foolish compromise. She made up her mind, therefore, to reform, and be bad—thoroughly bad. In the episode with Samson she had proved to herself that she was no longer fit for the conventional extreme of respectful love and sheltered marriage. Her dilatory sense of daring must therefore be flogged to that other far extreme—“I hate betwixts and betweens!”
A little balm of self-deception had to be applied. Hitherto she had been more or less under home supervision; not stringent supervison, certainly; but a background of loving trust was a hindrance in itself. Now the trust had been withdrawn—and the background. Now she was on her own—free—disillusioned—slightly embittered—(Deb prodded the embitterment anxiously—yes, it was still there....) Now she was twenty-five and at the cross-roads——