“She may do something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, but she’s jealous.”
“Jealous of Jane?”
“Yes, hadn’t you noticed? She follows her about?”
“Bianca follows Jane about?”
“Just that.”
I thought how strange women are, seeing things that we none of us notice. I followed Bianca, Jane and Claire in imagination, moving about Paris in smooth rapid motors, slipping in and out of crowded streets, shops, drawing-rooms, theatres, watching each other. But how could Claire see one pursuing the other with all those people round them, all the music, the waiters, the footmen, the lights scattered along dinner-tables, the obstructing tables and chairs, the endless engagements? My mind wavered, I felt dizzy. I saw each one of the three women stepping out of her car, going into her house, the door closing upon her, hiding her from the world.
I came back to Claire’s delicate face and brooding eyes.