Mrs. Jael laughed as though bearing with a peevish miss of twelve.
“Dear life, of course you are.” And she broke into a fat giggle as though something had piqued her sense of humor.
Barbara’s face remained turned toward the window.
“You can go, Jael.”
The woman curtesied and obeyed.
Her face lost its good-humor, however, as quickly as a buffoon’s loses its stage grin when he has turned his back upon the audience. She stood outside the door a moment, listening, and then went softly down the passage to my lady’s room, with its stamped leather hangings in green and gold, its great carved bed and Eastern rugs.
Anne Purcell was seated before her mirror, her long, brown hair, of which she was mightily proud, falling about her almost to the ground. She had a stick of charcoal in her hand, and was leaning forward over the dressing-table, crowded with its trinkets, scent-flasks, and pomade-boxes, staring at her face in the glass as she heightened the expressiveness of her eyes.
Her glance merely shifted from the reflection of her own face to that of Mrs. Jael’s figure as she entered the room. They were not a little alike, these two women, save that the one boasted more grace and polish; the other more pliability and unctuousness, and perhaps more cunning.
“Get me my red velvet gown from the cupboard, Jael.”
“Yes, my lady.”