‘Jennifer—is a person I know well.’
She looked at Judith as if in surprise at her tone and manner.
‘I had no idea of that. She never mentioned you.’
For a moment that dealt a blinding blow, with its instantaneous implications of dishonesty and indifference. But she repeated:
‘I’ve known her well for two years. You can ask her. She might admit it.’ And as she spoke the last words she thought with sudden excitement: ‘Just as I never mentioned Roddy....’
‘Oh, I can’t get anything out of her,’ said Geraldine and added truculently: ‘You might as well tell me what it’s all about.’
‘I have nothing whatever to tell you. I don’t know why you’ve come. I’d like you to tell me what it’s all about—or else go away, please.’ She was conscious all at once of a terrible inward trembling, and got up again. The other watched her in silence, and she added: ‘I haven’t been near her—since that night in her room. I’ve kept away—you know that night....’
‘What night?’
Judith broke into a sort of laugh; and then checked herself with a vast effort: for the suppressed hysteria of weeks was climbing upwards within her and if it broke loose, it might never, never cease.
‘Well—one night,’ she said, ‘I thought perhaps you remembered.’