"More than that."
"More than that!" I cried, nervously clutching at my gown. "Is it a wasp?"
"Don't get excited." she murmured, leaning still farther towards me. "It is most interesting. You have a cleft under your nose between your two nostrils; it denotes extraordinary artistic sensibility."
"Oh, no," I said, "you are mistaken. That mark is the result of falling against a sharp-edged fender as a child. I thought it was practically imperceptible. My husband calls it a dimple. I am afraid I am not artistic in the sense you mean. My husband and I are not very interesting. We are just every-day, ordinary people."
"And you are all the happier for that," she said, lifting the hair from her forehead as if it were too heavy. "You ordinary people, as you call yourselves, have the pull over us nervous, highly-strung, thinking mortals. Oh, the thoughts that burn in my brain! Sometimes I lie with my face pressed to dear mother earth—I put my lips to the grass, I murmur to her, I become one with her, and she soothes and comforts me as a mother soothes a tired child."
Involuntarily I pictured Mr. Winderby finding his rather portly spouse in her green velvet bed-gown rolling on the ground, and I smiled. I pretended that I was smiling at Amelia, who appeared with an advance guard of Japanese serviettes, but Mrs. Winderby detected my deceit. She frowned and rose.
At once I felt conscience-stricken. Mrs. Winderby was trying to entertain me, she had taken me into her confidence, and here was I, a supercilious invalid, laughing at her. I felt really sorry.
"Don't go, Mrs. Winderby," I said pleadingly. "Tea is coming, and I should like you to meet my husband."
"Master's in the cock-loft," said Amelia, carrying the three-decker cake-stand and placing it in front of Mrs. Winderby.
"In the where?" I asked.