But not for long. In the middle of a discussion on Freud, my hostess moved past me with a smile that held something of meaning in it, and I looked up to see her welcoming a tall woman, strikingly handsome, whose face I recognized at once.
But I should not have recognized her if her face had not been engraved on my memory by the force of association with tragedy. For I remembered Mrs. Fawcette as an ultra-conservative, conventional woman—a woman who was socially powerful and knew it, and one whose speech and attire were as conservative as her views. And now!
She wore a long flowing “art” gown of the most amazing shade of orange fading into lavender. She wore long green earrings, hanging nearly to her shoulder. Her chestnut hair, once so beautifully coiffured, now escaped in wisps from beneath her big, flopping hat, and from her head to her heels she was “of art, arty”!
But after a second glance I realized that the change in her attire was perhaps not the most striking change after all. The handsome face was still hard—still held something of dominance in its level glance—but the mouth had sagged a little, there were heavy lines under the eyes, the eyes themselves were less clear, and the whole face had deteriorated. It was much like approaching a house, handsome in the distance, only to find it deserted and falling into ruins on closer inspection.
As a portrait painter, I have naturally studied faces. But I have never before or since seen so great a change in a face without a definite cause to which the change could be ascribed. It was not a good face, at all events, of that I was very certain.
Mrs. Furneau smilingly signed to me to join her, and I was presently shaking hands with Mrs. Fawcette. Her manner was most cordial, but I did not feel that she was particularly glad to see me.
“I hear you have been round the world since last we met,” I told her.
“Oh, no! Just a fairly long stay in Egypt, a little off the beaten track.”
“What enthusiasm!” I remarked. “Life is a poor shabby thing at best, so I don’t see that it matters much where we spend it. But I dare say you enjoyed yourself?”
My manner was languid and my words evoked a glance of surprise from my hostess. But I imagine that she took it into her head that my attitude had some sort of a purpose—as indeed it had, though not the humorous one she suspected—for she smiled slightly and moved away.