Mrs Evans threw a protesting glance.
“My dear! What language!... Very nicely done; very nicely indeed! An excellent beginning!”
She folded up the garment as she spoke, and with a swift movement placed it at the bottom of a pile. Not for a contribution towards the Organ Fund would she have betrayed the fact that Grizel had sewed a leg seam to a sleeve!
From all sections of the community Grizel Beverley was sure of a welcome, and on the afternoon of the bulb party she had a special reason for being her most charming self, a reason which she had found in the weariness of Cassandra’s eyes. The two friends had descended the terrace steps together, but had separated at the bottom, the hostess to talk to as many of her guests as possible before they adjourned to the house for tea. Cassandra was conscious that each group stiffened into attention at her approach, and that natural manners suffered an eclipse while she was present. Invariably the same stereotyped remarks were repeated. “How large the hyacinths are this year. How charming the blue squills look against the bright yellow of the daffodils. The hepaticas are finer than ever... How very early for iris!”
Cassandra sighed. Eight years had she lived among these people, yet she remained the merest acquaintance, while Grizel Beverley was already a friend. A month ago she had been proudly indifferent to her own unpopularity, but to-day it hurt. She was so overwhelmingly lonely that a craving was upon her for human companionship which in some measure might rill the void. She moved about from one group of guests to another, always skilfully turning in an opposite direction when she caught sight of a fair girl in a blue dress, accompanied by a tall man in grey; until presently, with the feeling of reaching a haven, she found herself alone with the Vicar’s wife.
Mrs Evans looked with concern upon the small, brilliantly coloured face under the fashionable hat. She noticed how little flesh there was on the finely modelled cheeks, how sharp cut was the bridge of the nose. The girl looked delicate; she was too thin; taken in conjunction with the tired eyes, that exquisite flush could not be healthy. There was a motherliness in the good woman’s manner which pierced through the crust of dignity as she put her hand through Cassandra’s arm, and said kindly:
“You look tired, dear! I hope you didn’t feel cold standing about on the terrace. It is exposed, and the wind is chill. Are you quite well, Cassandra?”
“I think so. Why? Don’t I look well?” Cassandra felt a relief in the thought that her depression might be physical. “You know I am always unhappy at these functions. I am not a good hostess, and it worries me to know what to say. I’m so thankful I’m not a Vicar’s wife! That must be even worse. Doesn’t it bore you to extinction to be everlastingly two people,—yourself with your nice natural impulses—and the Vicar’s wife who has no business to have impulses at all! Doesn’t it bore you terribly to be always ex officio?”
Mrs Evans hesitated. She intensely wanted to say yes, but that highly trained article, her conscience, would not allow the deception. The colour deepened on her large, plain face as she said slowly:
“I did find it a trial in early years. Of late the trial has come to me in another fashion. I am perhaps a little too ready to enjoy the importance of my position.”