“Ph—how hot it is; it’s this summer-house.”
“Let’s go outside if you like,” said Miriam lazily, “it seems to me simply perfect in here.”
“It’s all right—ph—it’s hot everywhere,” said Harriett languidly. She mopped her face. Her face emerged from her handkerchief fever-flushed, the eyes large and dark and brilliant; her lips full and drawn in and down at the corners with a look of hopeless anxiety.
Anger flushed through Miriam. Harriett at nineteen, in the brilliant beauty of the summer afternoon facing hopeless fear.
“That’s an awfully pretty dress” she faltered nervously.
Harriett set her lips and stretched both arms along the elbows of her basket chair.
“You could have it made into an evening gown.”
“I loathe the very sight of it. I shall burn it the minute I’ve done with it.”
It was awful that anything that looked so charming could seem like that.
“D’you feel bad? Is it so awful?”