But Annabel had been laughing.
An hour later, in the quiet of her own room, she tried to shrug her shoulders, wisely, tolerantly, at the pin-prick—and could not.
If she had gone home, if she had been able to go home after that appeasing hour when Justin had helped her with Timothy, when they had walked together on the terrace, she knew that she should have fallen asleep happily, hopefully, though on what she based her happiness and her hope she could not have told you. But Annabel had laughed, more maliciously, more discreetly, yet as Coral might have laughed: and in a flash the old thoughts, the old bitterness, had overwhelmed her again. She inveighed against herself. Was she such a weakling that she could be moved by what outsiders chose to think? Annabel, indeed! That for Annabel! But Annabel had been laughing at Justin ... at Justin, a grown man—making a fool of himself—over a game!... at Laura, unable to stop him, without the faintest influence.... A trifle? Of course it was a trifle, the straw which showed so clearly to Annabel, to all the world, which way the wind blew. Such a trifle that if she spoke to Justin.... What was the use of speaking to Justin, of telling him what she thought? It would only mean a row.... He had been annoyed the other day, about the letter.... It wasn’t her business to criticize Justin.... And if it were, that wasn’t the way to do it.... Men must be humoured.... And after all, it wasn’t difficult to humour Justin....
She smiled to herself as she combed out her long hair, and, parting it carefully, put up her hands to plait it; but she got no further; for as she looked at the glass she realized suddenly, with a certain crisping of her skin, a certain shortening of her breath, that not only was she looking at herself, but that herself was looking at her. It moved as she moved, pursed lips with her, while its hand divided the rope of hair into three; yet all the while it stared at her with that air of critical comprehension that looking-glass faces have, and its thoughts, underneath its imitative obedience, shone in its eyes with such an odd suggestion of menace that she cried out to it at last, aloud—
“What is it? Oh, what is it? I’m afraid——”
Its lips, moving quickly, answered even while she spoke—
“—Of yourself! Actually afraid of yourself. You’re afraid to be yourself, aren’t you? Justin mightn’t like it.”
She watched the shamed, conscious flush rise and die again in its looking-glass face.
“I’m quite happy,” she said to it defiantly.
“Of course!” Its narrowed eyes were merciless. “Of course. It’s such fun humouring Justin. It’s so easy to give in. It’s such a pleasure to oil the wheels—to be always exactly what he wants, where he wants, and when he wants. It’s the delightfullest slavery. He owns you, doesn’t he? and you’re proud of it. Well, I suppose it’s worth while to you. I’m told it’s a most voluptuous sensation.”