"Well!" she demanded, with a boldness that surprised even herself.
But Mrs. Russell didn’t notice it, or at least didn’t appear to notice it. She opened her eyes and smiled affably.
"I’m horribly selfish, aren’t I? But I’m such a miserable sleeper, and I felt—won’t you read to me a bit?"
"All right!" said Angelica; but though she spoke so carelessly, she felt suddenly quite sick. "What shall I read?"
"Here’s my book. I suppose you don’t read French, do you?"
Angelica reddened.
"Yes, of course!" she answered. "Nothing but French spoken in the factory, you know!"
"We’ll stick to English, then," said Mrs. Russell, with just the same smile. "And hand me my cigarette-case, won’t you?"
Angelica did so, and nervously opened the book at a marked page; but Mrs. Russell stopped her.
"Just a minute please! I want to ask you something. I’ll have to explain things a little. I told you, didn’t I, that I really engaged you for my daughter-in-law? She’s in a terrible state, poor soul! She lost her little boy. He died of pneumonia six weeks ago. Do you know, I’ve always thought that that poor little creature caught the disease from a friend of Polly’s, whose husband was just getting over it when she came here. My husband insists that it’s awfully contagious, or infectious, or whichever it is. And this woman, my dear, was so heartless about that poor man! She said, when I asked after him, ‘Oh, nothing will ever kill him!’ Did you ever? But as far as that goes, she’s never made the slightest pretense of caring for him. But I think—don’t you?—that you can be decent without being hypocritical. She simply tells every one that she married him for his money, and that now she’s got it, she’s going to spend it. Of course, I’ve known her for years, but her husband’s more or less of a stranger—a Canadian, I think; and really very nice—too nice, I tell her. I don’t make any pretense about it. I simply tell her she’s a heartless little beast, and extravagant. It’s incredible!"