“... and she thought the toast was ‘Church and Birmingham’!” ended Guy in a shrill scream.
Rory and Arnold chuckled; Dick shook convulsively, and a little sheepishly. After all, he was much older than the others; besides, he was afraid that his plate might slip down. He was very fond of his plate, and much enjoyed clicking it into place, like the right piece in a jig-saw puzzle; nevertheless, he would die of humiliation if it slipped down before Arnold.
Story followed story; with each one, the laughter growing louder and more satyr-like (even David was smiling gravely); and it was on the best of terms that the five entered the billiard-room, where, if there were men, it was the custom at Plasencia to assemble after dinner.
Arnold immediately organised a game of Snooker between Dick, Concha, Rory, Guy, and himself; and the Doña, who was not completely free from a social conscience, invited David to come and sit beside her on the sofa.
What on earth was she going to talk to him about? It had been difficult enough at dinner. Ah, of course! There was always the War; though there were few subjects that bored her more.
Though she was as ignorant as the Australian aborigines of the world’s organisation and configuration, and of the natural and economic laws by which it is governed, yet, like an exceptionally gifted parrot, she was able to manipulate the current clichés, with considerable tact and dexterity.
For instance, on her annual visit to Wales, she would say, quite correctly, “Snowdon is very clear to-day, isn’t it?” And that, though she had not the slightest idea which of the many peaks on the horizon happened to be called Snowdon.
Nor did she ever talk about a barrage in connection with motor-cars, or a carboretto in connection with guns; though, if asked to define these two words, she would have been hard put.
So David talked about the War, and she purred or sighed or smiled, as the occasion required, and did not listen to a word.
She noticed that Guy’s eyes kept wandering towards the chair where Teresa sat motionless. Well, he, at any rate, had always preferred Teresa to Concha. Why was she jealous of Concha? It must be Concha’s beauty that was the trouble.... Teresa, of course, was more distinguished looking, but Concha was like a Seville Purissima—infinitely more beautiful.