She knew that she was looking her worst, strained and overwrought, and with the odd Japanese aspect of her eyes and cheek-bones intensified. Even her hair felt limp and unresilient.
She looked at the doctor rather piteously, envisaging to herself her own unprepossessing appearance, and wishing that she had at least powdered her face recently.
“Where’s Amy?”
“In the drawing-room, with a lady visitor.”
“Thank God! I’ve been hag-ridden for the last week. What the devil’s up, Elsie?”
“I don’t know,” she murmured. “At least, I know Mrs. Woolley’s been horrid to me lately, that’s all.”
“She has, has she?” he muttered furiously. “Here—come in here.”
He drew her into the shelter of the nearest doorway.
“Elsie, I’m mad about you. This sort of thing can’t go on—it’s simply hell.”
“Oh, hush, someone’ll hear....”