"We'd better be getting on with your toilette, Olive," she said.
"What a darling you are!" cried Mrs. Arundel, quite melted. "You're so unselfish.... It's perfectly touching."
Sophy couldn't help smiling.
"It isn't unselfishness," she said; "it's the instinct of self-preservation. I can't give way to decent, moderate little angers."
She was talking to keep Olive from seeing how deep the thing had pierced her. And she hooked deftly and lightly, with fingers that were icy cold but nimble. After she had admired her friend and the new gown sufficiently, she said: "Was there any more? What motive did she say I had?"
Mrs. Arundel glanced slyly at the clock again. She had still a good twenty minutes before her guests would arrive.
"Let's sit here cozily by the window—and I'll tell you everything!"
The homely yet amorous fragrance from the white carnations in the window-box flowed gently over them. It drowned out the smell of soot—the London smell. They might have been in a cottage-garden.
"My dear," Olive began, "the old cat hates you. That explains evewything."
"She hates all Americans," said Sophy evenly.