"Last Monday...."
Venetia became openly aware of Joan. Matthias interposed.
"Miss Thursday—my fiancée. Joan, this is Mrs. Marbridge."
"Miss Thursday—my fiancée. Joan, this is Mrs. Marbridge."
"Truly?"
The shock told; she had been playing off very deftly a painful contretemps, but this announcement dashed Venetia. Momentarily she hesitated, scarlet lips apart but inarticulate, widening eyes of violet a shade darker, with—if possible—a pallor deeper even than that most striking attribute of her beauty. But the check could have been apparent only to the initiate or to a strongly intuitive intelligence.