“So—what? Teresa, do please be definite! I’m interested in this Mrs Beverley. If she’s really plain, it’s so clever of her to look lovely. If she is lovely, it’s so stupid of her to look plain. What is she so—?”
“Funny!” gasped Teresa, and giggled triumphantly. “Yes, she is funny! She says funny things. In a funny way. She is not a bit like—”
“Teresa—what?”
“Chumley,” said Teresa, and involuntarily Cassandra heaved a sigh of relief.
“Lovely. Plain. Funny. Not a bit like Chumley.” Cassandra noted each point with an infinitesimal nod; into her eyes there danced a spark of light. “This sounds exciting! I shall call upon Mrs Beverley.”
“Thankful to hear it!” Raynor grumbled. “You ought to call a lot more. People expect it. It would please ’em, and be good for you. You shut yourself up, and get hipped. A woman needs gossip, to let off steam.”
Cassandra’s light laugh carried off the personality of the remark, but after the laugh came a sigh, a ghost of a sigh of whose passing her husband and Teresa remained serenely unconscious. Only Peignton heard it, and his eyes turned to rest upon her face.
There was in his glance an intentness, an understanding which gave the impression of barriers thrust aside. Cassandra was startled by it, and discomposed. She had reached the stage when she did not expect to be understood. That such a stranger as this man should have read her thoughts seemed at the moment a deliberate offence. She lowered her lids with an impulse of self-defence.
“It is five o’clock,” she said shortly. “Bernard, if you can tear yourself from buttered toast, shall we begin bridge?”