“No,” looking up questioningly. “Hasn’t he?” in feigned surprise. “I am astounded. He’s just full of her.”
“Her?” repeated Mrs Carew, raising her eyebrows significantly.
“Yes, her—and she hates me, mummie. What do you think of that?”
“But surely she doesn’t know you?”
“That’s of no account at all. She’s rather given to hating, for she hates Lawrie too—at least she says she does.”
“I hardly see how she can be his friend then.”
“Oh, yes! it’s simple enough. If I say I hate a man, I find it’s generally a sure sign I rather like him. Only I’m surprised she’s found the trick out, buried among those old mountains.”
“All the mountain ranges in the world piled up round a woman wouldn’t make her other than contrary,” remarked Lawrence. “I can imagine her wrestling and struggling to get away, and then a deliverer of the male sex comes along and proceeds to help her, says something she doesn’t like, or doesn’t say something she does like, and she would promptly sit down and say she adored mountain ranges and wouldn’t be in any other spot for the world.”
“Of course,” exclaimed Gwen, “you wouldn’t have us grow as milk and watery and monotonous as the male sex, would you? That’s just what makes us so interesting.”
“Irritating would be nearer the mark.”