Annabel Cleeve had been described to me as “not exactly pretty but extremely fascinating”; and it was further said of her that she could marry almost any man in the country if she wanted to. But as I said before I didn’t think that so wonderfully clever.
Her complexion appeared to be pale, dusky, mysterious, everything that is romantic; but she had her back, quite by accident of course, to the rose-red lamp, so it was rather difficult to tell. Only I have known those romantic lamplight complexions to bear in the daylight an extraordinary resemblance to Indian curry. I couldn’t see her eyes very well, but I afterwards discovered that they were a pretty though rather cold grey. It was a pity that she always kept them half closed, for it gave her a rather blasé air. Like so many chic girls she hadn’t any girlishness at all about her; it seemed to have all been swallowed up in chic. Certainly her hat was very clever.
Mrs Valetta was the only one in the room who had not yet tried her claws on me, the reason evidently being that she was too tired.
She was a wicked-looking woman with weary manners. Even her coat and skirt hung on her as though it was worn out with fatigue, although it was really quite smart. After saying “De do?” to me she had sunk with a Mrs-Pat-Campbellish air into a low chair, and closed her eyes as though hoping it was the last act she need perform on earth. It was she who had the Persian-blue eyes; and die wore a felt hat slouched over them and fastened up at the side with a B.B. Police badge.
Quant-à-moi, I was not at this time at all smart. It is true that my Panama hat had come from Scotts, my grey velvet-corduroy coat and skirt had Lucile: rue de Rivoli in gold letters on its waist belt, and my shoes and stockings bore the stamp of the good Peter Yap. Nevertheless, I was not smart. Africa’s sunshine, dust, mail-bags, winds, rains, grass-ticks, mosquitoes, and mules had done evilly unto me and my clothes, and my appearance had not the original charm and freshness peculiar to it. Wherefore I felt very much out of tune with the world in general, and most particularly with these ladies who scrutinised me with such curiosity and penetration.
If they had shown the smallest scrap of enthusiasm or pleasure it would have been different. But no: there they sat, watchful and grim as man-eaters. With the exception of the leathery-faced one, of whom I afterwards heard that she ate, drank, slept and had her being on horseback, and never wore anything but riding-kit, they were all imperturbably cool and fresh in light dresses, though I thought it curious that no one wore a dinner gown. Perhaps it was because they had not dined, but only “partaken of a meal” like the remarkable one which stood before me on a tray. Judy had begged me to excuse it, saying that dinner had been over for some two hours and the boys had been obliged to scratch up a meal from the ends of the earth for me. It had that appearance. There was a very hard-boiled egg, a box of sardines, a dish of terribly déclassé potatoes, and a cup of tea. Accidentally, there was also a plate of tomatoes, freshly plucked, with a bloom on them like a mist on a ripe plum, and for these I was truly grateful. I cut them into slices and with my bread-and-butter made little sandwiches which assuaged my hunger and thirst at the same time.
The grey-eyed kitten again addressed me:
“Dear Miss Saurin, have you brought any poudre de riz with you? No one here has any thing but Fuller’s Earth, and you know how greasy that makes your nose.”
I had no such knowledge. However, I answered civilly:
“Yes, I have poudre de riz and every kind of thing made by Rimmel and Piver and Guerlain. My sister-in-law wrote me that these things were hard to get here, so I brought bags full.”