“I knew it would be too rich,” the voice of the brown woman said reproachfully. “It’s too bad of you to spoil my dinner, when you know my stomach’s not strong. Nasty, bilious stuff! I can’t touch another bit.”
Well! He might have chosen a handsomer, a more refined woman. Little common narrow creature! He might have given her a more worthy rival while he was about it.
“Where did I put my gloves? No, I couldn’t look at pudding; it would just about finish me. Cheese? If you like—not for me. I’ll have a liqueur by and by; not that beastly green stuff we had last time. Cherry brandy. I can’t have lost the gloves.”
She twirled round suddenly, putting her hands behind her and anxiously fumbling. Pamela wheeled round too, grasping the handle of her umbrella by way of excuse. Their eyes met. The quick, respectable, scandalized expression shot into those of the brown woman.
Pamela flinched and flushed. It wasn’t pleasant to be mistaken—by her, too. The wretch—the little, common, hypocritical wretch! How dare she? Their eyes met: the malevolent stare in the pink and brown woman’s, the eager, wide look in Pamela’s. She photographed on her alert brain every line of that face—the face which Edred found more comely than hers. It was long and thin, but quite youthful; she judged her to be about twenty-five. The eyes were hot brown, like the gown, and set close together. They were restless eyes, curiously restless. They roved about perpetually, seeming miserably to search for something which never came. It was like a monkey’s face—a pink, unlined monkey face. There was cunning in it, spite, and a kind of dumb pathos. A very curious woman for a rival!
She fished up the ginger-colored gloves. They were shamefully new; one or two of the buttons were still covered with tissue-paper.
Edred had finished his meal; he was smoking, his head back, his eyes dreamy. Pamela knew the attitude very well; it usually followed a good dinner. Her heart ached for herself. The little woman fussily put on her gloves, drew down her veil, settled her fluttering ends of pink satin. Then she, too, fell back on the red seat and began to look idly about her, passing audible comments on people whose appearance invited the acid of her tongue.
“And there’s that woman behind,” she said presently, in a distinct whisper. “Just behind me. Look—when she isn’t looking. How silly you are! Always looking the wrong way. Didn’t I say behind?”
“Never mind. I’ll take your word for her,” he returned.
“But do look. I’m sure she’s—you know. Half of them are in this place. Disgraceful, overdressed things!”