“Blair Stevenson is said to be coming back to the Foreign Office” was the sub-conscious wriggle of motive underlying her sincere belief that Deb would be the better for a more strenuous existence.
For Blair Stevenson, in the Diplomatic Service, was Gillian’s friend; Antonia liked him, appreciating to the full his supple wit and undeniably perfect breeding; his pursuit of her was ardent enough for her to enjoy keenly the sensation of flying ... he never drew near, and presently the pursuit slackened; he was sent abroad—British Resident of some West African province; and when he returned, fell easily into place as one of her group—an excellent occasional. Antonia was aware that he was still on good terms with Gillian ... and that if accidentally he met Deb there—“What does it matter?” But the fierce desire persisted to keep the child ... pure.
The eventful climax of the meeting between Gillian and Deb on Zoe’s doorstep, Antonia accepted quietly and almost with relief. It had happened, and there was no more to be done—by her at least. A week afterwards she was forced to leave London—her Major-General was perpetually touring and inspecting and dashing hither and thither. Deb in her letters had spoken no further word of Gillian (Deb was afraid, as a matter of fact, knowing Antonia’s probable state of mind), but Gillian, in divine unconsciousness, dashed off a hasty postcard on which “dear Deb,” struck out, was replaced by “dear Antonia.” It was probably the only card Gillian could find amongst the frenzied litter on a desk which Winifred ought to have kept tidy ... but it told Antonia all she wanted to know—all that she did not want to know: Deb and Gillian were getting on nicely....
And now Blair was returning. For all her liking of Blair’s society, she infinitely preferred him in Greece, where he was at least safe from the result of Cliffe’s parties or Gillian’s introductions.... Antonia could not be for ever vigilant ... the Major-General was beckoning once more——
And then came that sunny letter from Cliffe Kennedy informing her of a marvellous studio party he had arranged. “I borrowed your studio as usual, and you can have Seaview in the summer whenever you want it. These are little eddies of communal brotherhood that one day will unite to a surging river that will sweep away, etc.——”
Antonia skipped a page or two till the names she sought, dreading to find, sure to find, sprang at her from the page—“Blair Stevenson—Deb....”
... “I had a sort of presentiment that something was bound to happen if I brought those two together.... And again, Antonia, my experimental nerve had twitched to some purpose. Bet you a copy of the Omar Khayyam (I’ve got seventy-two) that this fusion of personalities will have Results—dramatic or beautiful or horrid.... Do come home and join the audience—I’m so excited.”
III
Deb, entirely absorbed in her canteen work, had given up scanning the horizon for the villain of the piece; so that it was with a shock that she looked up and found him standing quite close to her, waiting for his cue.... Almost she hoped that he would prove not worth while.... Those nights under the gaunt station roof, watching the restless watchers for the leave train, watching the grimy burdened soldiers tumble with dazed eyes out of their compartments on to the platform ... till roused to the necessity for rapid mechanical dole of coffee and sandwiches—wash up—start afresh—hour after hour.... These nights had become more real than the arrangement and re-arrangement of her own temperament.
But Blair was so definitely worth while that Deb dared not refuse him as a prospective—what? The old dream was dead, of course ... dream of the big thing—husband who knew of all her past idiocies, and called her a goose and laughed at her, and understood; small sturdy boy in a dark blue jersey and rumpled hair several shades too light for such a brown skin.... “You are being not only sentimental, but also futile!” she informed herself. “Next there will be pretty fancies all about a dream-garden”—and straightway there was the garden, at the magical hour of after-tea when the grass looks as though it had been freshly painted, and the canterbury bells are adrip from recent watering....