The lady in black came swiftly, as if to the place of her desire. The glance that expressed her gratitude went from Lucy to Jane and from Jane to Lucy, and rested on him for a moment.
As the four grouped themselves at their respective tables, the lady in white, seated with her back to the window, commanded a front and side view of Jane. The lady in black sat facing Lucy.
She put her elbows on the table and turned her face (her profile was remarkably pretty) to her companion.
"Well," said she, "don't you want to sit here?"
"Oh," said the older woman, "what does it matter where we sit?"
She spoke in a small, crowing voice, the voice, Lucy said to himself, of a rather terrible person. She shivered.
"Poor lamb, does it feel a draught down its little back?"
The lady rose and put her fur tippet on the shivering shoulders. They shrank from her, and she drew it closer and fastened it with caressing and cajoling fingers. There was about her something impetuous and perverse, a wilful, ungovernable tenderness. Her hands had the swiftness of things moved by sweet, disastrous impulses.
The white person (she was quite terrible) undid the fastening and shook her shoulders free of the fur. It slid to the floor for the third time.
Lucy rose from his place, picked up the fur and restored it to its owner.