With me behaving as if everything was infinitely matter-of-fact, what could he do? And just then Heaven sent old Manningtree—I didn’t tell you before of the fortunate intervention of Manningtree, did I? He was looking quite infernally distinguished, with a wide crimson ribbon across him—what IS a wide crimson ribbon? Some sort of knight, I suppose. “You must be the Miss Pellissier of whom David has told me so much,” he said, shyly. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. She had omitted that the flu had been called the Black Death and that it was a dead child that had been inside that womb, so many hundreds of years ago. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. “Because I hate you!” She spat. Women never throw themselves into each other's arms; they calculate the distance and the damage perfectly.
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