“Well,” said Zoe, with aggressive cheerfulness, “I am going to finish my work. I won’t face a presumably civilised man—even if he is only a Tartar underneath—in a skirt like a vivandière’s. You had better do yours too, instead of going out this morning, Eirene. There’s the semantron, Maurice. Retire to your cell.”
“How can you be so flippant?” said Eirene indignantly, taking up her work with languid fingers.
“If I wasn’t, I should cry, which would be both useless and disgraceful. We seem fated to fall back again every time we think our troubles are at an end.”
“I suppose you hate me?” said Eirene.
“Oh no, I don’t. We’re all in the same boat, for one thing, and you didn’t mean to do all the things you have done, you know. It was Eirene-ism, not deliberate wickedness.”
“I think you are the most absolutely heartless person I ever met!” cried Eirene, with flashing eyes.
“Very well. I’m sure it’s better to be heartless in our present circumstances. It will save us loads of misery.”
They worked in silent mutual indignation for some little time, and then Eirene spoke suddenly, with an obvious effort.
“I have a plan,” she said. “I think I see how to put things right.”
“Then please forget it. It was your last bright idea that got us into this fix, you know.”