“Are you going to preach here?”
It was Eve who asked the question, and Joan Gaunt who answered it.
“No. We are just private individuals on a walking tour.”
“I see. And that means?”
“Someone on the Black List.”
Eve smothered a sigh of relief. From the moment of entering Basingford she had felt the deep waters of life flowing under her soul. She was herself, and more than herself. A strange, premonitory exultation had descended on her. Her mood was the singing of a bird at dawn, full of the impulse of a mysterious delight, and of a vitality that hovered on quivering wings. The lure of the spring was in her blood, and she was ready to laugh at the crusading faces of her comrades.
She pushed back her chair.
“I shall go and have a wash.”
“What, another wash!”
Her laughter was a girl’s laughter.