“I’m no longer a flapping girl with everything to discover,” she went on, “I’ve had my share of love stuff. By Jove, I’ll use my intelligence, for a change. I’ll get into the fight and develop strategy. Every one’s looking to Edmund as the one honest man in the political game, and I’ll buckle to and help him. He’s an amazing creature. I’ve always admired him, and there’s something that suits my present state of mind in making up to him for my perfectly rotten treatment all these years. If I can’t make a lover into a husband, by Jingo, I can set to work to make a husband into a lover. There’s an idea for you, Feo, my pet! There’s a mighty interesting scheme to dig your teeth into, my broad-shouldered friend!”
She sent out an excited laugh and flung up her hand as though to welcome a brain wave. Her amazing resilience stood her in good stead in this crisis of her life,—to say nothing of her courage and queer sense of humor. Her blood began to move again. Fed up with decadence, she would plump whole-heartedly for usefulness now, be normal, go to work, get into the good books of George Lytham and his party, surprise Fallaray by her sudden allegiance to his cause and to him, and gradually break down the door that she had slammed in his face.
“I’ll let my hair grow,” she continued gayly, working the vein that was to rescue her from despondency and failure with pathetic eagerness.
“I’ll chuck eccentric clothes. I’ll turn up slang and blasphemy. I’ll teach myself manners and the language of old political hens. I’ll keep brilliance within speed limits. Yes, I’ll do all that if I have to work like a coolie. And I’ll tell you what else I’ll do. I’ll bet you a thousand pounds to sixpence that before the end of the year I’ll be the wife—I said the wife, Georgie—of the next Prime Minister. Will you take it?”
She drew up short, alight and excited, her foot already on the beginning of the new road, and paused for a reply.
Georgie stretched like a young Angora cat and yawned with perfect frankness.
“I’ll take whatever I can get, Feo,” she said. “But what the devil are you talking about? I haven’t heard a blessed word.”
And Feo’s laugh must have carried into Bond Street.
And when Georgie had transferred herself from the many-cushioned divan to her extremely smart car, in which, with an expressionless face and a mind as calm as a cheese, she was going to drive to Hurlingham to be present at, rather than to watch, the polo, Feo went upstairs.