Antonia meditated: “We might put Cliffe on to the story of the French Count——”
“Too busy with Winnie to understudy the God of Vengeance just at present.”
“Winnie?”
“Cliffe?”
Gillian nodded. “’M. Last night. Quaint, isn’t it? You know, she always had a queer fascination for him ... she was so placid and plump—and he so gaunt and impetuous ... he used to try and try and try to rouse her to some display of emotion, till he went gibbering mad with failure ... and she just lay on the sofa. I used to watch them. So at last, in a sort of frenzy, he proposed to marry her—and she really was surprised. Rather surprised, not awfully. She said: ‘Fancy. Did you ever. What things you do say, Cliffe!’” Gillian mimicked the slow, fat speech of Winifred with a fidelity that stirred both her companions to mirth ... though Antonia was very white; and Deb’s lips were ruefully curved: If Cliffe were at all inclined to marry ... “then why not me—at the time?” half laughing, yet wondering a little how Winifred Potter had succeeded with Cliffe where all the rest of them had failed, and separately summed him up as sexless—dear old Cliffe—the Uncle type—a flying comet through their lives.—“And he’s exuberantly, fantastically happy in his choice,” Gillian added, innocent of sub-currents; “so am I and Theo—No—so are I and Theo.... That doesn’t sound right either, does it? Theo did all the flirting he could with her, in about a couple of hours.... So far and no further, you remember?—and then it bored him to have her always about the home. And it made a lot of extra work for me—I’m not complaining—but just mentioning it, now it’s over. Of course we couldn’t turn her out, but we’re speeding up the nuptials with enthusiasm. And then we two shall be alone together ...” softly. And no one, seeing her eyes and her mouth, could have doubted the success of her pioneer experiment with the audacious but unworthy Greek.
“Does Zoe know?”
“About Cliffe and Winnie? I don’t think so. I expected she’d be here this afternoon.”
“No, she’s indispensable to the War Office on Monday afternoons—not a couple of loafers like you—you’re lucky in your Major-General, Antonia, he always seems to be having bilious attacks!—I received a very Zoe-esque letter, hinting at a fruitful episode in a cinema, where she carelessly put her foot up on the seat in front of her and accidentally left it there even when someone sat down, and it came back with a note inside—the shoe, I mean—saying he was follement éperdu of the pretty ankle, and would the owner meet him, etc.”
“A typical Zoe adventure, French and all. ‘Men may come and men may go,’ but there will always be enough for our Zoe! even nowadays.”
“After all, she only needs as many as there are doors to her flat, and one over. What is it, Antonia?”