Penderel hadn’t troubled himself much with the thought of Miss Femm. ‘She’s probably a harmless old creature, though she certainly does remind one of a slug.’
Gladys kept the wrinkle on her nose for a few moments more, then let it go and smiled. ‘What’s the time?’
He couldn’t tell her. ‘Sorry. No watch.’
‘Fancy a man without a watch!’ she cried, though the thought seemed to please her. ‘But I never have one neither. Can’t be bothered somehow. Why don’t you?’
‘I hardly ever want to know how it’s going—the time, I mean; and if I do, there’s always somebody ready to tell me. Some people never seem to think about anything else. I don’t think I like watches and clocks. We ought to go back to hour-glasses and sundials, things that deal with time quietly and don’t for ever pester you with their sixty seconds to the minute.’
She seemed to be looking at him rather than listening to him. ‘You’re a funny boy,’ she said at last. ‘I expect you’ve been told that before.’
Was this something real, only defeated by language, or was she becoming heavily arch? ‘No, I haven’t,’ he replied lightly. ‘I haven’t been told anything for ages. I’ve been spending most of my time with men, and men, you know, never say things like that, never really tell you anything about yourself.’
‘I can tell you something about myself? she said, making a droll little grimace.
‘What’s that?’ He put on a look of mock gravity.
She curved a hand round her mouth. ‘I’m dying for a drink.’