“Oh, it’s perfection! The only thing is that it seems such a waste down here! There’s no one who cares in the least whether you’re a fright or no.”
“There’s at any rate, Fred,” said Lady Gale.
“Oh, Fred!” said Mrs. Lester scornfully. “He would never see if you stuck it right under his nose. He can dress his people in his novels, but he never has the remotest notion what his wife’s got on.”
“He knows more than you think,” said Lady Gale.
“Oh, I know Fred pretty well; besides,” Mrs. Lester added, smiling a little, “he doesn’t deserve to have anything done for him just now. He’s been very cross and nasty these few days.”
She was sitting on a stool at Lady Gale’s feet with her hands clasped round her knees, her head was flung back and her eyes shining; she looked rather like a cross, peevish child who had been refused something that it wanted.
Lady Gale sighed for a moment and looked out into the twilight; in the dark blue of the sky two stars sparkled. “Take care of it, dear,” she said.
“Of what?” said Mrs. Lester, looking up.
“Love, when you’ve got it.” Lady Gale put her hand out and touched Mrs. Lester’s arm. “You know perfectly well that you’ve got Fred’s. Don’t play with it.”
“Fred cares about his books,” Mrs. Lester said slowly. “I don’t think that he cares the very least about me.”