“We have had trouble. You heard that my cousin was dead.”
Mrs. Fox-Darriel’s eye travelled again over Camelia’s black dress. “Yes—I heard. Poor little thing. And she would never appreciate how charming was the mourning being worn for her; that gown is really—well, there is a great deal in it, a great deal. I don’t know how you manage to make your clothes so significant. You’ve got all Chopin’s Funeral March into those lines. Well, it makes you feel badly, of course.”
“Yes. Very badly.” From the very patience of Camelia’s voice Mrs. Fox-Darriel was keenly aware of barriers. How Camelia had disappointed her! A certain baffled, angry affection rose within her.
“You certainly treated her horribly, my dear. I understand regrets.” Camelia made no reply, and looked at her with a steady sadness.
“And—she was in love with the vial of wrath. You knew that, I suppose.”
“I knew that I was in love with him, Frances.”
At that Mrs. Fox-Darriel gasped. Her eyes took on an unblinking fixity. “So you own to it?”
“Yes, I certainly own to it.”
“Camelia! You are not going to—” The conjecture made her really white.
“To what?” and Camelia smiled irrepressibly.