“Isn’t it getting very hot?” she said quickly.
“It is rather hot. Shall I ask them to open the window a little? But it is just behind you.”
“It doesn’t matter. I have brought my fan.”
She picked the fan up and began to use it unsteadily.
“The room is so very crowded to-night,” she murmured.
“Yes. No wonder with such cooking. Here is the Zabaione.”
The waitress put two large glasses before them filled with the thick yellow custard, then brought them a plate of biscuits.
Lady Sellingworth laid down the fan and picked up her spoon. She must eat. But she did not know how she was going to force herself to do it. Although she kept on saying to herself: “It’s impossible!” she could not get rid of the horrible suspicion which had assailed her. On the contrary, it seemed to grow in her till it was almost a conviction. She tried to eat tranquilly. She praised the Zabaione. She sipped her Chianti Rosso. But she tasted nothing, and when the musicians struck up another melody she did not know what they were playing.
“Are you tired of it?”
Craven had spoken to her.