Miss Toner’s was an insignificant little head, if indeed it could be called little, since it was too large for her body, and her way of dressing her hair in wide braids, pinned round it and projecting over the ears, added to the top-heavy effect. The hair was her only indubitable beauty, fine and fair and sparkling like the palest, purest metal. It was cut in a light fringe across a projecting forehead and her mouth and chin projected, too; so that, as he termed it to himself, it was a squashed-in face, ugly in structure, the small nose, from its depressed bridge, jutting forward in profile, the lips, in profile, flat yet prominent. Nevertheless he owned, studying her over his tea-cup, that the features, ugly, even trivial in detail, had in their assemblage something of unexpected force. Her tranquil smile had potency and he suddenly became aware of her flat, gentle voice, infrequent, yet oddly dominating. Sensitive as he was to voices, he saw it as a bland, blue ribbon rolled out among broken counters of colour, and listened to its sound before he listened to what it said. All the other voices went up and down; all the others half said things and let them drop or trail. She said things to the end: when the ribbon began it was unrolled; and it seemed, always, to make a silence in which it could be watched.
“We went up high into the sunlight,” she said, “and one saw nothing but snow and sky. The bells were ringing on the mountains beneath; one heard no other sound. I have never forgotten the moment. It seemed an inspiration of joy and peace and strength.”
“You’ve walked so much in the Alps, haven’t you, Roger?” said Mrs. Chadwick. “Miss Toner has motored over every pass.”
“In the French Alps. I don’t like Switzerland,” said Oldmeadow.
“I think I love the mountains everywhere,” said Miss Toner, “when they go so high into the sky and have the sun and snow on their summits. But I love the mountains of Savoy and Jura best.”
It vexed him that she should. She was a person to stay in and prefer Switzerland. “Joy and peace and strength,” echoed in his ears and with the words, rudely, and irrelevantly, the image of the pink glazed tube with the gilt stopper. Miss Toner’s teeth were as white as they were benignant.
“I wish I could see those flowers,” said Mrs. Chadwick. “I’ve only been to Vevey in the summer; oh, years and years ago. So dull. Fields of flowers. You’ve seen them, too, of course, Roger. All the things we grow with such pains. My Saint Brigid anemones never really do—though what I put in of leaf-mould!”
“You’ll see anemones, fields of them, in the Alpine meadows; and violets and lilies; the little lilies of Saint Bruno that look like freesias. I love them best of all,” the bland, blue ribbon unrolled. “You shall go with me some day, Mrs. Chadwick. We’ll go together.” And, smiling at her as if they had, already, a happy secret between them, Miss Toner continued: “We’ll go this very summer, if you will. We’ll motor all the way. I’ll come and get you here. For a whole month you shall forget that you’ve ever had a family to bring up or a house to take care of or anemones that won’t grow properly—even in leaf-mould.”
Her eyes, as they rested on her hostess, seemed to impart more than her words. They imparted something to Oldmeadow. He had not before conjectured that Eleanor Chadwick might be bored or tired, nor realized that since Barbara’s birth, fourteen years ago, she had not left Coldbrooks except to go to London for a week’s shopping, or to stay with friends in the English country. He had taken Eleanor Chadwick’s life for granted. It seemed Miss Toner’s function not to take things that could be changed for granted. It was easy to do that of course, when you had a large banking account behind you; and yet he felt that Miss Toner would have had the faculty of altering accepted standards, even had she been materially unequipped. She and Mrs. Chadwick continued to look at each other for a moment and the older woman, half bashfully, seemed, with what softness, compelled to a tacit confession. She’d never known before that she was tired. Springs of adventure and girlishness within her were perhaps unsealed by Miss Toner’s gaze.
“And where do the rest of us come in!” Barney ejaculated. He was so happy in the triumph of his beloved that his eyes, their sleepiness banished, were almost as brilliant as Palgrave’s.