Marcia giggled.

“Don’t I know it! You’re that sort, you little wretch.” Then, with a sudden change of tone, “Get your hair dry and come round. I’ve got to see you.”

Gay drew back an inch or two. Something said, “Don’t go.” The words were so loud and distinct in her mind that she very nearly dropped the receiver. She stood there frowning at it, her gay, bright colour gone as if a puff of wind had blown it out-a wind of fear-a cold, cold wind of dread.

“Gay-where are you-are you there?”

Gay said, “Yes.” The wind went past her and was gone. The fear was gone. Her colour came back.

“Gay-what’s the matter? You sounded-funny.”

Gay laughed her own gay laugh.

“I went all cold. There’s a beast of a draught under Aunt Agatha’s front door. Why do you want me to come round?”

Marcia giggled.

“Darling, what a thing to ask! I want to see you of course.”

Gay frowned again.

“Why do you want me?” Marcia didn’t, unless there was something you could do for her.

Marcia stopped giggling. She said imploringly.

“Oh, Gay, do come! It’s about Sylvia-she’s in an awful jam.”

II

Sylvia’s such an idiot,“ said Marcia Thrale with a giggle.

“She always was,” said Gay. She didn’t giggle, she frowned. She was remembering all the different times Sylvia had been an idiot, and had got in a jam, and had had to be hauled out again. And it wasn’t Marcia who had done the hauling, though she was her sister, it was nearly always Gay Hardwicke. And a jam at school was one thing, but a jam after you are married and ought to be living happy ever after was quite another. Her frown deepened, and she said impatiently, “What on earth has she been doing now?”

They were in Marcia Thrale’s bedroom at the Luxe. It was a riotous orgy of pink. Everything that could be pink had been painted, upholstered, or draped in that colour.