Pamela looked about her hungrily, silently, at the familiar dumb things which seemed alive that night: warm, vital things that knew her. The hideous china figures on the shelves grinned affably—at a former neighbor.
“You must drink this hot.”
Pamela began to cry again as the cup was held to her mouth.
“Ssh. No. Drink the tea. Tell me everything and have a big cry afterward.”
She drank obediently, draining the cup. Then she said in a heartfelt, passionate way, as if she were an ardent convert to a new belief:
“There is nothing like another woman when one is miserable.”
“Nothing. Men are excellent—when we are happy. At other times they bully us—with the best intentions—putting all our emotions down to hysteria.”
“Men are never excellent at any time. They have brought me misery. You pay for one moment of delight with a day of anguish.”
“This tray,” said Barbara Clutton, evidently thinking it politic to turn the conversation, “was Mrs. Bert Hone’s. You were with me when I bought it. Do you remember how deaf she was, and how the old man swore—most picturesque swears! Do you remember what I said that day about your brother Edred? How is he?”
Pamela started up at the name.