"I suppose you'd say she had wonderful taste?"
"Miss Babraham?"
"No, Joan of Arc," said Woman, venomously.
"Her taste is very good indeed—that is, in some things."
"In hats, I suppose."
"I meant in old china," said the impersonal one. "I've never known her to make a mistake in old china."
"That's interesting." It was a weak remark, but June had seldom felt less conversationally brilliant.
Silence again. A third helping of tapioca was politely declined. June then pushed across the cheese. William removed its cover, and disclosed an extremely meagre piece of Leicestershire.
"Please may I give you a little?" he asked, with his inimitable air.
"There'll be none for yourself if you do. Besides, I don't want any. No thank you." She remembered her manners, although that was not easy just now. "I'll go out presently and buy some more. I'd quite forgotten the cheese."
"Please—please take this tiny piece."
"When I say no, I don't mean yes," said June, tempering strength of character with calm politeness. "I can't imagine Miss Babraham eating a piece of Leicestershire cheese in a dirty overall—can you?"
The remark was so irrelevant that it verged upon the grotesque. Heaven knows from what malign impulse it sprang. No girl in her senses would ever have made it. Giant Despair and the Hag Desperation must have been its sponsors.
It was quite open to William to follow the line of least resistance and ignore the question. A William
