"You will receive the notice, of course," said the chairman.
Down below, just as G.J. was getting away with Christine's
chrysanthemums in their tissue paper, Lady Queenie darted out of the
lift opposite. It was she who, at Concepcion's instigation, had had
him put in the committee.
"I say, Queen," he said with a casual air--on account of the flowers,
"who's been telling 'em I know about accounts?"
"I did."
"Why?"
"Why?" she said maliciously. "Don't you keep an account of every penny
you spend?" (It was true.)
Here was a fair example of her sardonic and unscrupulous humour--a
humour not of words but of acts. G.J. simply tossed his head, aware of
the futility of expostulation.
She went on in a different tone:
"You were the first to see Connie?"
"Yes," he said sadly.
"She has lain in my arms all afternoon," Lady Queenie burst out, her
voice liquid. "And now I'm going straight back to her." She looked
at him with the strangest triumphant expression. Then her large,
equivocal blue eyes fell from his face to the flowers, and their
expression simultaneously altered to disdainful amusement full of
mischievous implications. She ran off without another word. The glazed
entrance doors revolved, and he saw her nip into an electric brougham,
which, before he had time to button his overcoat, vanished like an
apparition in the rainy mist.
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