A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. He leaned forward to embrace her. Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. All of a sudden, there was movement behind him. “Good-bye, Miss Pellissier, and success to you,” he said. “Sooner or later, John, it will come to that. Your boyfriend. I hope you won’t think less of me, you’ve treated me so well. She wrenched her head away from his grip and got her arm between his chest and hers. That was odd: when young people were joyous, they had to express it physically. After all, she found herself reflecting, behind her aunt’s complacent visage there was a past as lurid as any one’s—not, of course, her aunt’s own personal past, which was apparently just that curate and almost incredibly jejune, but an ancestral past with all sorts of scandalous things in it: fire and slaughterings, exogamy, marriage by capture, corroborees, cannibalism! Ancestresses with perhaps dim anticipatory likenesses to her aunt, their hair less neatly done, no doubt, their manners and gestures as yet undisciplined, but still ancestresses in the direct line, must have danced through a brief and stirring life in the woady buff.
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