Gillian looked up, smiling a little.
“It’s settled we’re going ‘there,’ then—wherever it is?” she said.
“Do you think you’d like it, Gillyflower?” asked Magda. “It’s a farm I’ve heard of in Devonshire, where they want to take paying-guests for the summer.”
Gillian, guessing from Magda’s manner that the whole matter was practically arranged, nodded acquiescence.
“I’m sure I should. But will you?”—whimsically. She glanced at the sophisticated simplicity of Magda’s white gown, at the narrow suede shoes and filmy stockings—every detail of her dress and person breathing the expensiveness and luxury and highly specialised civilisation of the city. “Somehow I can’t imagine you—on a farm in the depths of the country! I believe you’ll hate it.”
“I shall like it.” Magda got up restlessly. “I’m sick of society and the theatre and the eternal gossip that goes on in London. I—I want to get away from it all!”
Gillian’s thoughts turned back to the happenings of the last few months. She thought she understood what lay behind Magda’s sudden decision to bury herself in the country.
“Have you taken rooms at this farm?” she asked.
“Yes, I have”—shortly. Then, with one of those sudden flashes of affectionate insight which were part of her essential lovableness, she went on: “Gilly, are you sure you don’t mind? I ought to have asked you first”—remorsefully. “I expect you’ll be bored to death. Perhaps you’d rather not come?”
Gillian’s quiet brown eyes smiled at her reassuringly.