"What's that book?" she added sharply, the crimson cover of her friend's novel catching her eyes.
Miss Breeze's face, already so red and white in the wrong places, turned a deep bluish colour of extreme embarrassment. "Oh, it's—it's just a book," she stammered, laying her hand on it. "I—I thought I'd like to read it, just to see if it really is good."
Mrs. Walbridge, who had risen, held out her hand.
"Let me see it, Caroline," she said quietly, and Miss Breeze gave it to her. "I thought so—Beryl J. Bell. I've seen it advertised. Jones & Hayward advertise a great deal. Is it—is it good?"
Mrs. Walbridge's voice shook a little, and Caroline Breeze turned her eyes away.
"Nothing extra," she answered in a voice that tried to be indifferent. "I suppose they spend a lot of money in advertising her."
Forgetting her hurry, Mrs. Walbridge sat down again and looked eagerly through the book. There was a long silence, a flutter of pages being the only noise in the quiet room. Caroline Breeze's faithful heart ached for her friend, and in her wisdom she said nothing. But Mrs. Walbridge spoke after she had closed the book and laid it down on the bed.
"I suppose you know," her voice was very quiet and the colour had died away from her face, leaving the shadows and lines in it deeper than ever. "I suppose you know that 'Lord Effingham' is—a failure?"
Caroline made a dreadful grimace, rumpling up her nose and protruding her thick lips two or three times rapidly, a way she had when she was embarrassed or distressed.
"Oh, no," she protested, "not a failure. I've noticed that the critics don't seem to like it quite so much as the others, but——"