He took no notice of her disagreeables, sitting down and making himself pleasant to them both, though both knew full well for whom were his gentle words and bold, enfolding gaze. Sometimes Loree had the sensation that they were scorching through her gown and searing her very flesh. More than ever she resolved to cling to the society of Valeria Cork. The latter remained distrait and contemptuous, and when Quelch asked them to go to the theatre after dinner, curtly replied that she had a bridge engagement. Loree also refused, but in more dulcet fashion. She said she feared the night air. No one mentioned the affair of the diamond necklace, nor was the subject of the suicide referred to. Loree was grateful for both of these things.
After coffee and idle gossip in the lounge, Mrs Cork rose to join the two dominant-nosed ladies and a nosier man. Loree also rose. She had suddenly developed a migraine. This was indicated by the use of a minute gold bottle of smelling-salts and a delicate gesture of her hand across her forehead and hair, as if brushing away pain. Quelch looked on with troubled eyes, but it was vain for him to plead that five minutes in the garden would do her all the good in the world.
“Not when I have a migraine like this,” she dolefully replied, and repeated the lovely gesture, pushing pain back into her emotional hair, which bronzed and winged above her brows like fine threads of metal.
“When I have a headache like this, nothing cures it but bed,” she averred, and cast her priez-pour-moi look at him. With a barricade of protecting people about, she was enjoying herself immensely. It was a pity to go away from anything so rousing and exciting as his sultry glances. But it was safer than to stay. You never knew what a lawless man like that might do. She offered her hand in good night, and he was obliged to take it with the best grace he could muster. But he held it very closely, and did not release it until the red colour in her face responded to his pressure. Then, careless of what any one thought, he stood perfectly still, watching her out of sight. She tripped up the stairs, not at all like a woman suffering from migraine. Her sprightly movements brought a cold, resolute look into his dark face.
Her mind was full of both business and pleasure. First, and always, there were the diamonds wherewith to console solitude. Secondly, she had come by an inspiration during dinner, and was anxious to carry it into effect. It was an inspiration to repay “whatever gods may be” for the felicity of her diamonds by doing a good action which would also bring pleasure to another. She had determined to solace the financial troubles of Valeria Cork by secretly presenting her with Pat’s fifty-pound note. Such noble and pleasant intentions lend wings to the feet. She flew to her room and obtained the note. But a black boy was tidying out a bathroom next door to Mrs Cork’s bedroom, and she could not enter without being seen by him. Trying the balcony, she found a maid flirting there with some one’s valet.
Obliged to possess her soul in patience till the coast was clear, she returned to the contemplation of her diamonds. It was nearly an hour before absolute solitude prevailed and she was able to steal to Mrs Cork’s door—only to find it locked! The door leading from the balcony proved to be in like case. This was a contingency that had not occurred to her. She constantly left her own door unlocked, and supposed that other people did the same. However, her mind was nimble, and never left her long without an idea. She went to her room and placed the banknote flat, in a large white envelope. For a moment, she toyed with the temptation to write, “From a friend,” upon the covering, but decided not to. Mrs Cork might know her writing, and that would never do. She wished the gift to be as anonymous as her own gift from the gods. Returning to the locked door, she knelt down, and, with great difficulty, worked the envelope underneath, computing that, as soon as the door opened, there it would lie, obvious and inviting. When, at last, she rose from her knees flushed and hot, but rather pleased with herself, it was to find Valeria Cork had come soft-footed down the corridor and was leaning against the opposite wall watching the proceedings. She had an unlighted cigarette between her lips and something very like a sneer in her sardonic eyes.
“If you’ve quite finished operations,” she said, “I’ll go in and make the discovery.”
Loree, caught red-handed at her good works, confused and agacée, stood like a convicted thief. For a moment, she thought of explaining. It seemed the only thing to do. But the other woman’s manner was so extraordinarily hostile that she was both alarmed and resentful. In silence and with great dignity, she walked away. But behind her own closed door she stood palpitating with apprehension for what would happen next. She had not long to wait. A sharp knock came on the door, and, without waiting for it to be opened, Valeria Cork marched in, holding the note and envelope as if they were something infectious.
“What is the meaning of this? How dare you?”
Loree, scarlet, stood clinging to the brass, rail of her bed. There did not seem to be any words adequate to the occasion. Impossible to inform this coldly furious woman that she had appeared to an onlooker as a fit recipient for charity. There was a brief silence, Mrs Cork obviously trying to control her temper.