“She’s not cold, really,” asserted Gillian positively. “Of that I’m sure. No one could dance as she does—and be an iceberg.”
Lady Arabella chuckled again, wickedly.
“A woman who can dance like that ought to be preceded through life by a red flag. She positively stirs my old blood—that’s been at a comfortably tepid temperature for the last thirty years!”
“Some day,” said Gillian, “she’ll fall in love. And then—”
“Then there’ll be fireworks.”
Lady Arabella completed the sentence briskly just as the car pulled up in front of her house. She skipped nimbly out on to the pavement.
“Fireworks, my dear,” she repeated emphatically. “And a very fine display, too! Good-night.”
The car slid away north with Gillian inside it reflecting rather ruefully upon the very great amount of probability contained in Lady Arabella’s parting comment.