CHAPTER TWO
Lady Brigit Mead was sitting on the hummocky sparse grass under an ancient olive-tree, looking seawards. She wore a blue frock without any collar, and her face and long, round neck were very sunburnt. Her face had hardened in the last four months, and there was a tense look about her upper lip, yet an artist would have preferred her face as it now was to what it was before she had become engaged. For now the nervous strain she was living under had told on her more material beauties, leaving more room for expression, as it seemed, to the others.
It was not that her face was better, but the suffering in it was less petty than the resentment that had formerly stamped it.
The dominant characteristic in it had hitherto been disdainful bearing of small annoyances; now it showed a grim endurance of a great suffering.
"Bicky, dear," Pam asked suddenly, coming up unheard, "what is it?"
She started. "What is what?"
"Your trouble. Oh, don't tell me if you don't want to, but I can see you are suffering, and—I used to tell the Duchess, long ago, and it always did me good."
"Did you tell the Duchess about—Mr. Peele, Pam?"
The elder woman smiled and sighed. "No, my dear, I didn't. But—he was her son-in-law."