She paused contemplatively. It occurred to me that the sensible people had probably decided that the author of Sex Is My Adventure would be silly-shocking too, but I forebore to suggest it. We all have our youthful follies, embarrassing to recall—but people somehow find it hard to dismiss as a youthful folly anything that has happened to be a financial success.
“It sort of twisted everything,” she complained. “I was writing another book to try to balance things up again. But I’m glad I’ll never finish it—it was rather bitter.”
“With an equally alarming title?” I asked.
She shook her head. “It was to be called Here the Forsaken.”
“H’m—well, it certainly lacks the snap of the other,” I said. “Quotation?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Mr. Congreve: ‘Here the forsaken Virgin rests from Love.’？”
“Er—oh,” I said, and thought that one over for a bit.
“And now,” I suggested, “I think it’s about time we began to rough out a plan of campaign. Shall I throw around a few observations first?”
We lay back in two superbly comfortable armchairs. On the low table between us stood the coffee apparatus and two glasses. Josella’s was the small one with the cointreau. The plutocratic-looking balloon with the puddle of unpriceable brandy was mine. Josella blew out a feather of smoke and took a sip of her drink. Savoring the flavor, she said:
“I wonder whether we shall ever taste fresh oranges again?…Okay, shoot.”
“Well, it’s no good blinking facts. We had better clear out soon. If not tomorrow, then the day after. You can begin to see already what’s going to happen here. At present there’s still water in the tanks. Soon there won’t be. The whole city will begin to stink like a great sewer. There are already some bodies lying about—every day there will be more.” I noticed her shudder. I had for the moment, in taking the general view, forgotten the particular application it would have for her. I hurried on: “That may mean typhus, or cholera, or God knows what. It’s important to get away before anything of that kind starts.”
She nodded agreement to that.
“Then the next question seems to be, where do we go? Have you any ideas?” I asked her.
“Well—I suppose, roughly, somewhere out of the way. A place with a good water supply we can be sure of—a well, perhaps. And I should think it would be best to be as high up as we reasonably can—some place where there’ll be a nice clean wind.”
“Yes,” I said, “I’d not thought of the clean wind part, but you’re right. A hilltop with a good water supply—that’s not so easy offhand.” I thought a moment. The Lake District? No, too far. Wales, perhaps? Or maybe Exmoor or Dartmoor—or right down in Cornwall? Around Land’s End we’d have the prevailing southwest wind coming in untainted over the Atlantic. But that, too, was a long way. We should be dependent on towns when it became safe to visit them again.
“What about the Sussex Downs?” Josella suggested. “I know a lovely old farmhouse on the north side, looking right across toward Pulborough. It’s not on the top of hills, but it’s well up the side. There’s a wind pump for water, and I think they make their own electricity. It’s all been converted and modernized.”
“Desirable residence, in fact. But it’s a bit near populous places. Don’t you think we ought to get farther away?”
“Well, I was wondering. How long is it going to be before it’ll be safe to go into the towns again?”
“I’ve no real idea,” I admitted. “I’d something like a year in mind—surely that ought to be a safe enough margin?”
“I see. But if we do go too far away, it isn’t going to be at all easy to get supplies later on.”