"Yes, I've seen her."
"You don't like her then?" said Madame astutely. "What's the matter with her?"
Something gave way in Lydia. The pressure of feeling was too great and candour seethed over the top.
"She's a horrid woman."
Or was it because some inner watchman on the tower told her Jeff himself had better hear again what one person thought of Esther? Madame Beattie threw back her plumed head and laughed, the same laugh she had used to annotate the stories. Lydia immediately hated herself for having challenged it. Jeffrey, she knew, was faintly smiling, though she could not guess his inner commentary:
"What a little devil!"
Madame Beattie now turned to him.
"Same old story, isn't it?" she stated. "Every woman of woman born is bound to hate her."
"Yes," said Jeff.
Lydia walked away, expecting, as she went, to be called back and resolving that no inherent power in the voice of aged hatefulness should force her. But Madame Beattie, having placed her, had forgotten all about her. She rose, and brushed the ashes from her velvet curves.