And she thought:
“What is the matter with me? I have ruined myself.” All her exultation had collapsed.
But Rosamund remarked gravely:
“It is a common story.”
Suddenly there was a movement in the obscure corner where sat the unnamed and unintroduced lady. This lady rose and came towards the table. She was very elegant in dress and manner, and she looked maturely young.
“Madame Piriac,” announced Rosamund.
Audrey recoiled.... Gazing hard at the face, she saw in it a vague but undeniable resemblance to certain admired photographs which had arrived at Moze from France.
“Pardon me!” said Madame Piriac in English with a strong French accent. “I shall like very much to hear the details of this story of petits pois.” The tone of Madame Piriac’s question was unexceptionable; it took account of Audrey’s mourning attire, and of her youthfulness; but Audrey could formulate no answer to it. Instead of speaking she gave a touch to her veil, and it dropped before her piquant, troubled, inscrutable face like a screen.
Miss Ingate said with noticeable calm, but also with the air of a conspirator who sees danger to a most secret machination:
“I’m afraid Mrs. Moncreiff won’t care to go into details.”