Mrs Brood smiled, a gay, pleased little smile that revealed her small, even teeth.
“You haven't offended me, my dear,” she said. “You offend my husband by thinking so ill of him, that's all.” She took the girl in from head to foot with critical eyes. “He said you were very pretty and very lovable. You are lovely. Isn't it a horrid word? Pretty! No one wants to be pretty. Yes, you are just what I expected.”
Lydia was the taller of the two women—a matter of two inches perhaps—and yet she had the curious feeling that she was looking upward as she gazed into the other's eyes. It was the way Mrs Brood held herself.
“He has known me since I was a little girl,” she said, as if to account for Brood's favourable estimate.
“And he knew your mother before you were born,” said the other. “She, too, is—shall I say pretty?”
“My mother isn't pretty, Mrs Brood,” said Lydia, conscious of a sudden feeling of resentment.
“She is handsome,” said Mrs Brood with finality. Sending a swift glance around the room, she went on: “My husband delights in having beautiful things about him. He doesn't like the ugly things of this world.”
Lydia flinched, she knew not why. There was a sting to the words, despite the languidness with which they were uttered.
Risking more than she suspected, she said:
“He never considers the cost of a thing, Mrs Brood, if its beauty appeals to him.” Mrs Brood gave her a quizzical, half-puzzled look. “You have only to look about you for the proof. This one room represents a fortune.” The last was spoken hastily.