She kissed the serene face, clasping the white-gloved hands with both of hers.
"Another from Folkestone?"
"Yes."
"What a fit! I simply must go there. D'you like my little room?"
Susan looked quietly round, examining the sage-green walls, the water-colors, the books in Florentine bindings, the chairs and sofas covered with chintz, which showed a bold design of purple grapes with green leaves, the cream-colored rough curtains, and Charmian's dachshund, Caroline, who lay awake before the small fire which burned in a grate lined with Morris tiles.
"Yes, I like it very much. It looks like your home and as if you were fond of it."
"I am, so far as one can be fond of a room."
She paused, hesitating, thinking of the little island and her sudden outburst, longing to return at once to the subject which secretly obsessed her, yet fearing to seem childish, too egoistic, perhaps naively indiscreet. Susan looked at her with a friendly gaze.
"How are things going with you? Are you happier than you were at Mustapha?"
"You mean—about that?"