“Don't look at me like that,” said Lady Mallowe. “I thought the country would freshen your color at least; but you are going off more every day. You look like the Witch of Endor sometimes.”
Joan smiled faintly. This was the brandishing of an old weapon, and she understood all its significance. It meant that the time for opportunities was slipping past her like the waters of a rapid river.
“I do not know what will happen when I leave Broome Haughton,” her mother added, a note of rasped uncertainty in her voice. “We may be obliged to come here for a short time, or we may go abroad.”
“If I refuse to come, would you let me starve to death in Piers Street?” Joan inquired.
Lady Mallowe looked her over, feeling a sort of frenzy at the sight of her. In truth, the future was a hideous thing to contemplate if no rescue at all was in sight. It would be worse for her than for Joan, because Joan did not care what happened or did not happen, and she cared desperately. She had indeed arrived at a maddening moment.
“Yes,” she snapped, fiercely.
And when Joan faintly smiled again she understood why women of the lower orders beat one another until policemen interfere. She knew perfectly well that the girl had somehow found out that Sir Moses Monaldini was to be at Broome Haughton, and that when he left there he was going abroad. She knew also that she had not been able to conceal that his indifference had of late given her some ghastly hours, and that her play for this lagging invitation had been a frantically bold one. That the most ingenious efforts and devices had ended in success only after such delay made it all the more necessary that no straw must remain unseized on.
“I can wear some of your things, with a little alteration,” she said. “Rose will do it for me. Hats and gloves and ornaments do not require altering. I shall need things you will not need in London. Where are your keys?”
Lady Joan rose and got them for her. She even flushed slightly. They were often obliged to borrow each other's possessions, but for a moment she felt herself moved by a sort of hard pity.
“We are like rats in a trap,” she remarked. “I hope you will get out.”