He looked at her closely, for her voice had risen in excitement. When it was too late, she realized that it would have been more natural to ask who had died. Before Jack's eyes her own fell, but she had time to wonder again whether he was stupidly incurious or deliberately secretive. There were moments when his "superiority" seemed more than a manner, when she felt bare and trapped. The placid, round-cheeked smile might have belonged to a cheerful ploughboy, but the commonplace grey eyes were sometimes intelligent and always watchful.
When the paper came, she felt that he was looking through her, and her hands trembled.
"Did you know the girl?" he asked.
"I met her once—for a moment. What a horrible thing to happen!"
"You must be glad you weren't there."
"What d'you mean?"
As the indignant, frightened question broke from her, she felt that she was behaving like a stage criminal and betraying herself because the audience expected it of her. It was a barrister's business to lure you on with innocent questions.... She was convinced that Jack knew everything and was playing with her.
"You always used to go about with him," he pointed out; and she wondered what base satisfaction one human being could derive from torturing another.
"It's curious the way you dislike people without knowing them," she answered. "Now, shall I behave like a perfect Victorian and leave you to your wine while I do a little embroidery in the drawing-room? I haven't got any embroidery and, if I had, I couldn't do it. Or would you like me to sit with you?"
When it was too late, she knew that she wanted to escape and collect herself before he went on with his inquisition.