‘We were two raw, unbleached school-girls, Amy—absolutely unbleached.’
It is such a phrase as this that gives Ginevra the moral ascendancy in their discussions.
‘Of course,’ Amy ventures, looking perhaps a little unbleached even now, ‘of course I had my diary, dear, and I do think that, even before Monday, there were things in it of a not wholly ordinary kind.’
‘Nothing,’ persists Ginevra cruelly, ‘that necessitated your keeping it locked.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ sadly enough. ‘You are quite right, Ginevra. But we have made up for lost time. Every night since Monday, including the matinee, has been a revelation.’
She closes her eyes so that she may see the revelations more clearly. So does Ginevra.
‘Amy, that heart-gripping scene when the love-maddened woman visited the man in his chambers.’
‘She wasn’t absolutely love-maddened, Ginevra; she really loved her husband best all the time.’
‘Not till the last act, darling.’
‘Please don’t say it, Ginevra. She was most foolish, especially in the crepe de chine, but we know that she only went to the man’s chambers to get back her letters. How I trembled for her then.’