Arrived at the little house in Upper Brook Street, Maggie and Etta went into the drawing-room, where biscuits and wine were set out. Their maids came and took their cloaks away, leaving them alone.
“Paul and I are engaged,” said Etta suddenly. She was picking the withered flowers from her dress and throwing them carelessly on the table.
Maggie was standing with her back to her, with her two hands on the mantel-piece. She was about to turn round when she caught sight of her own face in the mirror, and that which she saw there made her change her intention.
“I am not surprised,” she said, in an even voice, standing like a statue. “I congratulate you. I think he is—nice.”
“You also think he is too good for me,” said Etta, with a little laugh. There was something in that laugh—a ring of wounded vanity, the wounded vanity of a bad woman who is in the presence of her superior.
“No!” answered Maggie slowly, tracing the veins of the marble across the mantel-piece. “No—o, not that.”
Etta looked up at her. It was rather singular that she did not ask what Maggie did think. Perhaps she was afraid of a certain British honesty which characterized the girl’s thought and speech. Instead she rose and indulged in a yawn which may have been counterfeit, but it was a good counterfeit.
“Will you have a biscuit?” she said.
“No, thanks.”
“Then shall we go to bed?”