“You’re five minutes late,” she said abruptly, as he came in. She always spoke abruptly, even when she wanted to be most amiable. He was determined not to be bad-tempered, and smiled good-naturedly.
“Am I? So sorry.” He was very quick and rapid in every word and movement, but soft and suave—never blunt, as she was.
“Where have you been?”
“I went to look at those pictures in Bond Street,” he replied, without a moment’s hesitation.
He had come straight from seeing Bertha—on the subject of Madeline and Rupert—but he never thought of telling her that.
“I really don’t know. I didn’t think of it, I suppose. We’ll go another day.”
He sat down opposite her and began to smoke a cigarette, having permission always. She sat staring at him with clasped hands and eager eyes.
Bertha’s description of her as having flat red hair, a receding chin and long ear-rings was impressionistically accurate. It was what one noticed most. Mrs. Hillier was plain, and not at all pleasant-looking, though she had a pretty figure, looked young, and might have been made something of if she had had charm. There was something eager, sharp and yet depressed about her, that might well be irritating.
She got up and came and stood next to Nigel; playing with his tie, a little trick which nearly drove him mad, but he was determined to hide it. When he couldn’t bear it any longer he said: “That will do, dear.”