“By another lie?” A flame of indignation in the grey eyes that accused him of rousing her emotions by false pretences. Deb had been profoundly moved by the climax of the tale.
Cliffe argued good-humouredly: “For goodness’ sake, why all this arbitrary distinction between what I invent and what God invents. Of course I’ll see you home.”
“Deb’s stopping to supper with me,” Antonia struck in. “She’s dying to ask me all about you, and my account will be just as picturesque and much more reliable than yours.”
“But, Antonia, I thought you were supping out—with Gillian somebody?”
“Mother said so. I didn’t. I’m supposed to go to some very dull people and I’ve decided to ’phone them off.”
“What do you think of our Gillian?” Cliffe asked of Deb.
“I don’t know her.”
“Don’t know her—but she’s always here or at Zoe’s.”
“Who’s Zoe?”
Kennedy turned excitedly to Antonia: “I say, they must meet, mustn’t they? I believe she and Gillian would hit it off frightfully well. And Zoe’s a whole music-hall entertainment in herself, though I abominate the Spanish Jew of a shoemaker she’s walking out with now. Let’s phone them to come round here to-night. And Winny too——”