"Well, of course you've had the journey to-day and everything..."
"I never did come across such a dancer as Charles Fearns!" Janet went on.
"Yes," said Hilda, standing with her back to the fire, with one hand on the mantelpiece. "He's a great dancer--or at least he makes you think so. But I'm sure he's a bad man."
"Yes, I suppose he is!" Janet agreed with a sigh.
Neither of the women spoke for a moment, and each looked away.
Through the closed door came the muffled sound of the piano, played by Annunciata. No melody was distinguishable,--only the percussion of the bass chords beating out the time of a new mazurka. It was as if the whole house faintly but passionately pulsed in the fever of the dance.
"I see you've got a Rossetti," said Janet at last, fingering a blue volume that lay on the desk.
"Edwin gave it me," Hilda replied. "He's gradually giving me all my private poets. But somehow I haven't been able to read much lately. I expect it's the idea of moving into the country that makes me restless."
"But is it settled, all that?"
"Of course it's settled, my dear. I'm determined to take him away--" Hilda spoke of her husband as of a parcel or an intelligent bear on a chain, as loving wives may--"right out of all this. I'm sure it will be a good thing for him. He doesn't mind, really. He's promised me. Only he wants to make sure of either selling or letting this house first. He's always very cautious, Edwin is. He simply hates doing a thing straight off."