It suddenly frightened her that again she was hesitating too long; that decision was wearing thin and threadbare with the days.... Perhaps Blair had not realized ... it must be puzzling for a man nowadays to differentiate between the merely good; the frankly bad; the good trying to be bad; and the bad resolved to be good.
“I suppose he needs what Aunt Trudchen used to call ‘a little encouragement,’” Deb reflected.
Then by what sign could she convey to him that her intentions were dishonourable? They had, of course, dispassionately talked of sex, which is the weather-subject of to-day’s men and girls.... Deb was afraid, standing on tiptoe to the clubman and the cosmopolitan, that she might have given an excessive impression of sophistication; and that he was inwardly astonished, now, that she delayed to pass him some customary code-word or countersign necessary to his advancement. She had not the faintest idea what was expected of her, so she essayed a semi-confidence in La llorraine.
That royal veteran of a more clear-headed period, when courtesans were expected to know their alphabet, could not fail to be good-humouredly contemptuous at the spectacle of these children playing their variations of an old game with such quaint and ponderous seriousness; and getting so very little out of it in the way of genuine passion, genuine fun, and ermine cloaks.
Out of the question, certainly, that Manon should join these games. But Deb was six years older and had “made a muff from her chances,” as Manon would never be permitted to do. Moreover, Deb was not La llorraine’s own daughter.... So La llorraine shrugged her shoulders, and gave her the necessary tip.
Deb was on her way to call upon Blair Stevenson unexpectedly at his rooms in Jermyn Street. It was a quarter past ten in the evening, and because she had just been relieved from duty at Victoria Station, she was wearing a long disguising cloak over silk garments that slip on the skin with a suggestion of suave fingers. Blair was at home—she had telephoned during the day, and, preserving an incognito, had asked the valet what would be the best time to telephone again? The valet said: “I believe that ten o’clock to-night will be most likely to find Mr Stevenson.”... Blair would realize the significance of her visit; and—and once lifted to response, her fatal temperament could be relied upon to do the rest.
“I’ve waited long enough. Oh, suppose I waited till nobody wanted me any more, and then I wanted it more than anything else....”
She leant against the door for a pause of short, quick breathing. The neighbourhood, the steps and passages, the windows, were all discreet good form, world of the clubman, the cosmopolitan, the man who knows ... utterly alien world to the forlorn little virgin, who stands, suddenly erect and stiff and pearly-white; thumb pressed firmly on the bell-button of No. 141B.