“He slipped. He fell. He was shutting the door.” I felt I could go on saying that for ever and ever.
The red patches in her cheeks deepened. She spoke past me, rudely, furiously—
“I intend to know. I’ve a perfect right——Kent, I intend to know.”
I put out my arms carelessly, though my heart was thudding, and rested them against the doorposts.
“He’s shaken—a heavy man like that. Better leave him alone.”
“I intend to know,” she insisted. And then—“Jenny! Jenny! Let me pass.”
“No!” I said.
For a second we stood opposed, and in that second I realized literally for the first time (so dominating had her personality been) that she was shorter than I. She was dwindling before my eyes. I found myself looking down at her with almost brutal composure. That I had ever been afraid of her was the marvel! For I was young, and she was elderly. I was strong, and she was weak. Her bare arms were like sticks, but mine were round and supple, and I could feel the blood tingle in them as my grip tightened on the woodwork. She was only Anita Serle, the well-known writer; but I was Jenny Summer, and Kent was needing me.
“Jenny—you will be sorry!” Her eyes and her voice were one threat. Such eyes! Eyes whose pupils had dilated till the irids were mere threads that encircled jealousy itself—jealousy black and bitter—jealousy that had stolen upon us as the fog had done, obscuring, soiling, stifling friend and enemy alike—jealousy of a gift and a great name, of a dead woman and a living man and their year of happiness—jealousy beyond reason, beyond pity—jealousy insatiable, already seeking out fresh food, turning deliberately, vengefully, upon Kent and upon me.
I felt sick. I had never dreamed that there could be such feelings in the world. And now she was going to Kent, to probe and lacerate and poison—