“She’s a Bright Young Thing,” Ramsay said gloomily, unwinding Kitty from his neck. “She’s in pursuit of me,” he added. “God knows why.”
“I know Pamela,” Betty said. “She’s not in the least bit bright.”
All of the Cokers poured scorn on the so-called Bright Young Things.
“She’s not even that young,” Shirley said.
“Just a thing, then,” Betty said.
They cackled, delighted with themselves. They often were.
“Are you going to go?” Kitty asked Ramsay.
“Maybe. Something interesting might happen, I suppose.”
“Something you could write about,” Shirley said encouragingly.
“Ma will want you to show your face,” Betty said. “Fly the Amethyst flag.”
“We have a flag?” Kitty asked.
“Your friend Vivian Quinn will go, I expect,” Betty said.
“He’s not my friend,” Ramsay said. “His column’s moronic. He’s moronic.”
“Vivian Quinn?” an eager Kitty said to Ramsay. “I didn’t know he was your friend.”
“He’s not my friend,” Ramsay said. “Why does everyone say he is? I just happen to know him, that’s all. I don’t even like him.”
“You see him all the time,” Betty said.
“I see you all the time, that doesn’t make you my friend.”
“Apparently,” Betty said, unflustered by this slight, “he’s writing a roman à clef. I wonder if you’ll be in it, Ramsay,” she laughed. “Are you all right, Edith? You look like you’re going to be sick.”
Edith did look green but remained stoically at the table.
“Why on earth should I be in it?” Ramsay said. “I’ll have Quinn killed if I am.”
“By whom?” Kitty asked.
“Niven, of course,” Shirley said.
“You can do your own dirty work,” Niven said. “I’ve done enough killing.”
“Have you? Killed people?” Kitty asked, seeing Niven in a new, interesting light.
“What do you think war is, you idiot?”
Betty had moved on from her salad to a peach that she was flaying meticulously with a little solid-silver penknife that was engraved with her initials and had been given to her by an admirer. Nellie was in two minds about this gift—more useful than flowers, certainly, but to what end would you give a woman a knife?, she puzzled. It was an invitation to a stabbing, in Nellie’s opinion. Chekhov had his gun, Betty has her knife. Caution seems to be required in her narrative.
“I saw you yesterday,” Betty said accusingly to Niven.
Niven had still not sat down or removed his coat. He was someone who was always either coming or going, they found it disconcerting when he lingered like this between the two states.
“Near St. James’s,” Betty persisted. “You were stopped at those new ‘traffic light’ things and there was a woman in the car.”
“Who was she?” Shirley asked.
“No one,” Niven said.
“She must have been someone. Were you taking her for a spin?”
Betty guffawed in a very unladylike way and said, “Oh, is that what they call it now?”
“Did you, Niven?” Kitty asked with commendable innocence. “Take her for a spin?” He ignored the question.
“Are you going out again?” Betty asked him. He ignored that question, too. “Give us a lift, won’t you? Shirley and I are going to Selfridges.”
“Can I come with you?” Kitty asked.
“No.”
Niven had the best car, they were all agreed—a Hispano-Suiza so magnificent that people stopped in the street and gazed in awe at its beauty. （“Divine,” Kitty drawled, fluttering her hands in an inexplicable gesture. She always had some star or celebrity that she was emulating. She tended towards iconolatry.）
“Well, will you give us a lift, Niven?” Betty said. The now naked peach on her plate was a perfect ripe globe that could have understudied for one of the golden apples that distracted Atalanta.
In answer, Niven reached for the peach and took a great bite out of it, at which outrage Betty jumped like a scalded cat, yelling at him that he was a dark-hearted bastard who deserved to die, and Edith said, “There’s a child present” （“Where?” Kitty asked）， adding, “Do put the knife down, Betty.”
Niven clicked his fingers and Keeper jumped to attention. The pair of them left swiftly before anyone could claim a seat in the Hispano-Suiza.