—“And would it be indelicate to ask,” said Gillian, “why I’m suddenly invited to take tea with you, on these lawns of sheer respectability? I’m touched, Deb, really I am; I even left some jolly little fellows from the trenches to look after themselves, while I toddled off here; and I bought a new hat on the way—d’you like it?”
“It’s a monstrosity,” Deb replied frankly. “Take it off at once, somebody might see you in it; that’s better. Why didn’t you bring your wounded soldiers?”
Gillian looked puzzled, and Antonia explained laughing: “The jolly little fellows from the trenches are not what you think, Deb; and I doubt if your in-laws would approve of their presence here at tea—it’s enough for a start, that you should be allowed to invite Gillian, without a cortège of bacillian satellites. How was she finally admitted? I’m curious, too.”
“My husband met an eminent titled specialist, who happened to mention that a pamphlet with a perfectly ghastly name, published last month by one Gillian Sherwood, revealed one of the most brilliant pieces of research of modern times; and that the whole medical and scientific world were in a state of thrilled awe—that true, Gillian?”
“I believe so,” modestly. “But it’s nice of your husband to overlook my little aside from virtue, Deb.”
“He didn’t exactly overlook it, you know. Samson doesn’t possess the art of overlooking. He walked all round it, breathing hard, for nearly a year; and then hung a label on it: ‘Eccentricity of Genius. Not to be confounded with Fallen Woman. So please don’t spit!’”
“Ass!” chuckled Gillian.
“Lest you should grow proud, I may mention that Mrs Dolph Carew, likewise invited to tea this afternoon, has been and gone, that she might not have to meet you, Jill. I gather that she’s having a demure affair on the Q.T. with a certain Count Antoine ... but some women flaunt their affairs so shamelessly in the face of the world, that r-r-really, my dee-urr, one can’t possibly be associated with them. One is shocked, sorry—so ter-r-ribly sorry ... but the good Mrs Dolph Carew comes to tea early with the good Mrs Samson Phillips—oh, but very early——”
“I’m not having an ‘affaire,’” protested Gillian. “Does that little careful beast Manon imagine that I’m a cheap French novel? Deb, Deb darling, did you tell her that a multitude of hoary professors are always to be found squatting at my feet?”
“Yes. ‘We are not impressed.’... Hoary professors aren’t Society, after all.”