A knock on the door startled her. She turned to see Hebe Barrington advancing into the room.
“Oh! You are still here?” was her greeting.
“I find the work congenial,” returned Azalea.
The two women faced one another, understood one another. Neither made a pretence of concealing the animosity that had always existed between them. Azalea resented Hebe’s habit of establishing herself, taking complete possession of situations and people, and ordering the destiny of all with whom she came in contact. Hebe hated Azalea for the calm tenacity and cold superiority that had thwarted her so many times in the past. She had just returned from England, whither patriotic fervour and the personal attractions of a certain fulgid major had drawn her. The zest with which she had undertaken a particular form of War Work had strained even Toddles’ indulgence, until the only way they could live together was to live apart.
Hebe had abandoned her pursuit of Dilling, and renounced all complicity in Sullivan’s plans after a stormy interview with that gentleman. What she demanded, grandly, were his nugatory projects compared with the clarion call of Empire? He felt very bitterly towards her, blaming her for the miscarriage of his schemes. Had he foreseen the outbreak of the War, or Hebe’s defection, he never in the world would have assisted Dilling to a position of prominence where his public record commanded respectful admiration and where his private life was above reproach.
“Isn’t this a killing little hole?” Hebe observed, alert to every detail. “Sordid, undignified. You should see the quarters of the British politicians . . . and the War Offices . . .”
Tiny flames of anger gathered in Azalea’s eyes. There was something in the insolence of the other woman that suggested a personal criticism—as though she could have arranged the room more fittingly, prevented its sordidness, its displeasing atmosphere.
“A few flowers would make a difference,” she went on, appraising Azalea’s coat and hat that hung near the door.
“We don’t spend much money on flowers, now, merely for decorative purposes,” answered the other.
“What a pity! I always think that’s what they’re for. Is Raymond—Mr. Dilling—in there?”