‘Listen, Julian!—if that isn’t a thrush? What is he doing out of England? Can you imagine a French thrush? Oh, he sounds homesick!’ A sudden nostalgia overcame her. ‘I want to go home, too! I’m not a traveller. Sick for home—that’s what I am. This thrush and our pool are probably the things I shall most remember about France—and all because they made me think of England.... There was a girl at College I used to bathe with.... You’d have loved to look at her. Her name was Jennifer Baird....’
‘Oh, I think I’ve met her.’
What was he saying so casually?
‘You’ve met her?’ Hands clasped, heart thumping, she stared at him.
‘Yes, I’m sure that was the name. I was staying in Scotland with some cousins of hers.’
‘When, Julian?’
She could scarcely speak.
‘Last year, I believe. I remember now she was at Cambridge and said she knew you; but she wasn’t very forth-coming about you. I’d never have guessed from her that you were bosom friends.’ His voice sounded mocking.
‘No, you wouldn’t!’ she retorted, stung and scornful. ‘She doesn’t tell just anybody when——’ She checked herself; for perhaps after all it had been that Jennifer had not remembered her much in absence. She added quietly: ‘She was a person I knew well for a time. Tell me.... What did you think of her?’
‘Oh, mad as a hatter. But she was more alive than most people. A flame, let us say.’ His voice was ambiguous, unkind.