Gabrielle shook hands with Faber a little coldly; her manner toward Trevelle was cordial; she hardly noticed Bertie Morris. A habit of authority is easily assumed by some women, and it sat upon her gracefully. With unfailing dignity, she moved amid her assistants, directing, criticising, applauding them. When the mere man ventured a word of suggestion, he perceived very plainly that he was no hero in her eyes.
"Why," Faber remarked, "have you nothing in the ticket line? Do they all come in here on the nod?"
"Absolutely. Why should we have tickets?"
"Well, I've seen one old woman stow away five loaves since I came in. Is that your idea of it?"
"Oh, we can't stoop to trifles. And we have so much to give away. Mr. Trevelle is so wonderful. He has done a beautiful thing."
"A good collector, eh? So he's doing it all?"
"Indeed, and he is. It would not last a day without him. We are coming to a time when the others will have no bread to give away. He says that we can go on for weeks and weeks."
"I shouldn't wonder. Trevelle is a bit of a hustler, anyway. I suppose you've no time to tell me the news?"
She shrugged her shoulders, almost impatient of the mere cynic who could watch all this and say nothing in its favour.
"She is much better—of course, you are thinking of Maryska? I don't think she wishes to go to Italy now."