Pamela followed them up between the line of tables, between the greedy line of eaters, some gluttonously bending over the plates, some waiting with an air of impatience, some replete and leaning back, quizzing and smoking. In the long mirrors she could see the reflection of all three—such a dramatic three: Edred, with his sheepish, sleepy air; the strange woman, all pink and brown and narrow airs of virtue as she looked at—and apparently suspected—every other woman a little smarter than herself. Last of the three Pamela saw her own tall figure, stylishly attired, the abundant dull hair bunching out beneath her toque with the big ostrich plumes. The set and selection of her gown was in such good, if rather striking, taste, that the over-fed and quickly-feeding men looked after her, their faces lighting up.
The intangible feeling of shame, of smirching, which was becoming common to her, caught at her then. She fancied she read insult in the admiration of these many strange men.
She looked at herself again and was bound to admit that there was not so very much difference between her costume, her carriage, and the carriage and costume of others present whose vocation was unmistakable. The ultra-fashionable woman sails perilously near the wind in appearance. She felt quite angry with her expensive garments. She followed still, through the glass, the movements of the woman in pink and brown. She seemed to shout, in every seam of her dowdy frock, in every gleaming button of her badly-cut gloves, “respectable married virtue.” She!—she!
The world was whirling round the wrong way.
She followed her quarry, every sense alert so that Edred might not discover her. When the two settled at a table she deftly slipped aside and took the one immediately behind them. So that they were sitting back to back, she and that shameful woman with the perplexing insolent air of calm virtue. The back of her beautifully-cut and braided heliotrope coat was within a few inches of the contemptible little brown bodice with the crisp pink bow at the neck and the pink-lined ends, like lopping rabbit-ears, at the waist.
The waiter came up. Beneath her breath and mechanically she ordered a steak, her ears strained all the time to hear what they would order. Edred said:
“Calves’-head? You have never tasted it—as they serve it here.”
“It’s rather rich,” came a common voice dubiously.
Odd! Her voice, like her frock, like her little pursed mouth and hard eyes, was respectable. Aggressively respectable! Women like that had no right to appear respectable; to do so was an additional aggravation. Wasn’t their existence enough? The jealous fire was rising, was already burning, a steady white light, at her heart. But she was very glad, of course. Confused, conflicting thoughts kept running in her head.
When the steak came she could not eat it; there was enough for two men. She just played with her knife and fork, dipping deeply into the bottle of red wine she had ordered.