“Well, Jules has nearly finished.” Mrs. Iverson was still beautiful, but with a great effort. In her youth when the famous portrait had been painted, she had been almost as fair as Patricia, but now her hair was tinted auburn and her complexion was enamelled to match. Her eyes—still marvellous—were of a deep shade of blue, like a violet under the rays of the midday sun. Her mouth was much fuller than Patricia’s; and told its own tale. Mrs. Iverson had always been unutterably bored with her children, but she seemed to like or rather dislike Claudia the least. Patricia annoyed her, because she was reminded of her own lost freshness, and Jack she found stupid. She really rather liked to talk to Claudia for a quarter of an hour or so. Claudia was neither gauche nor ignorant. And her brown eyes, with their purposeful gaze—well, some memories are pleasanter than others, even to a Circe.
Claudia picked up the Occult Review, and tried to be interested in it till her mother should be free.
At length Jules departed. Mrs. Iverson inspected the result in the hand-mirror.
“He’s a marvel. I hope he’ll still be alive when you want him.... I like the cut of your skirt, Claudia. Who made it? Ah! I thought so. She can cut skirts. Don’t you find her ruinous?”
It was a polite interrogation, as though to a stranger.
“Yes, I thought her more of a robber than usual,” continued her mother. “I’m glad you haven’t got such long legs as Patricia. When she comes toward me with her arm waving she reminds me of a sign-post on a country road. It’s a pity. Men don’t like too long women. You and I are just the right height. I think this modern girl by the yard is a mistake. None of the famous women such as Jeanne du Barry and Ninon de Lenclos were very tall. Patricia will make most men look ridiculous.”
“Perhaps Pat doesn’t want to be a Ninon de Lenclos,” suggested Claudia, with a twinkle.
“Nonsense, every woman wants to be a Ninon de Lenclos, if she could have the chance. Don’t be taken in by this talk of ‘I wouldn’t.’ It’s a case of ‘I couldn’t.’ Most women have to be virtuous, because they can’t be anything else, and they make the best of it. What’s that American saying, ‘Virtue must be its own reward—any other would be a tip.’ Do you know what Ninon said herself, ‘Love is a passion, not a virtue: and a passion does not turn into a virtue because it happens to last—it merely becomes a longer passion.’ ... But what did you want to see me about?”
It should have been a propitious opening, this discussion of love, but somehow it was not.
“I think—I think I ought to tell you something.”