Teresa looked with wonder at everything, especially at the tangle of jewellery on the dressing-table.
“Don’t you like those red stones!” said Kate, kneeling again to put the books back, and looking at the brown neck bent absolvedly over the jewels. Thin shoulders, with a soft, dark skin, in a bit of a white dress! And loosely folded masses of black hair held by tortoise-shell pins.—An insignificant little thing, humble, Kate thought to herself.
But she knew really that Teresa was neither insignificant nor humble. Under that soft brown skin, and in that stooping female spine was a strange old power to call up the blood in a man, and glorify it, and, in some way, keep it for herself.
On the sewing-table was a length of fine India muslin which Kate had bought in India, and did not know what to do with. It was a sort of yellow-peach colour, beautiful, but it did not suit Kate. Teresa was fingering the gold-thread selvedge.
“It is not organdie?” she said.
“No, muslin. Hand-made muslin from India.—Why don’t you take it. It doesn’t suit me. It would be perfect for you.”
She rose and held the fabric against Teresa’s dark neck, pointing to the mirror. Teresa saw the warm-yellow muslin upon herself, and her eyes flashed.
“No!” she said. “I couldn’t take it.”
“Why not? It doesn’t suit me. I’ve had it lying about for a year now, and was wondering whether to cut it up for curtains. Do have it.”
Kate could be imperious, almost cruel in her giving.