FOR some time after Polly’s departure Gita lay still, with her brows drawn together. Her usually clear brain felt chaotic. A dog in the manger? Nice rôle for her. She couldn’t have—didn’t want—Geoffrey Pelham. Why had she alternated sympathy and noble resolutions with a desire to tear Polly’s eyes out?
And she was really devoted to Polly—hadn’t even ceased to love her when she’d felt like flinging the truth in her face. . . . Vanity? No . . . something else. . . . Her brain began to flash once more. Geoffrey Pelham loved her and that in a way made him hers. Her sense of possession was outraged. It was as if Polly had made off with her best seventeenth-century sunflower chest. . . .
Well, not exactly, perhaps. If she hadn’t inherited the essential endowment of her lady ancestresses she’d found room somewhere for a few female characteristics. Must have been lurking even when she thought she’d turned herself into a boy. She had a moment of poignant regret for the complete loss of that old manufactured—and protective—self. Pity they hadn’t let her alone. This mess wouldn’t have come about.
She shook her head. No intention of fooling herself. Life had been too pleasant and full of surprises since Elsie took her in hand. After all, what she had wanted was drama, and she seemed in a fair way to get it—although one act was over. But it was something to have been kept awake by a man and to have inspired a hopeless passion. Also quite a new sensation to want to strangle one of her three best friends.
She sprang to her feet. “Damn fools, all of us. And I’m no better than the rest.”
She tore off her negligée and hurried into a tweed suit and thick shoes. Problems always sent her on a long walk.