‘But, Adela, if, as you say, you expected this, why were you so pressing in your invitation? Why did you want to be “one of the crowd”?’
‘The maternal instinct.’
‘But you are competing with them.’
‘Not at all, old boy; I’m doing salvage-work. I’m giving you a breath of fresh air in this beautiful garden; then afternoon tea; next a game of golf; in the evening a stroll over the Downs, with just a kiss or two, without messing you up with rouge or powder. If, after that, you feel that the dolls of Bond Street want you, you must go; for then I’ll know you’re a decadent, hopelessly neurotic, and bound to end up—a fool.’
‘Where did you learn all this, Adela?’ I said, getting interested.
‘It’s an instinct, and, of course, I use my eyes. We girls have been to school, you know.’
‘The war has made you think, I suppose?’
‘The war, Johnnie, is messing things up. Women are making themselves cheap. They mean well. They want the boys to have a good time, but both are getting burnt in the process. You have learnt too much in France.’
‘But we knew these things before the war, Adela.’