Eve’s vitality was returning, and one of the first evidences of its return showed itself in a curiosity concerning this woman who had befriended her. All the little delicate refinements of life had been given her—flowers, books, early tea served in dainty china, a bottle of scent had even been placed on the table beside her bed. These things had seemed feminine and suggestive. The room had a warmth of atmosphere that did not seem to belong to the house of a woman who would not care to be thanked.
But from the very first moment that Eve saw Kate Falconer in the flesh, she understood the aptness of Alice Keck’s similes. Eve was unusually intuitive. She felt an abnormal presence near her, something that piqued her interest.
“I am glad that you are so much better.”
She came and sat down beside the bed, and Eve could see her profile against the window. A warm, evening light was pouring in, but Pallas’s white face and grey dress were not warmed by it. There was nothing diaphanous or flamboyant about her; neither was she reactive or absorbent. The poise was complete; the whole world on one side, this woman on the other.
She made Eve feel self-conscious.
“I am much better, thanks to all your kindness.”
“It was the obvious thing to do.”
“I cannot quite look at it like that.”
It struck her as absurd that this woman should speak of doing what was obvious. Eve’s intuition did not hail her as an obvious person, though it was possible that Mrs. Falconer’s cold brilliancy made what seemed complex to most people, obvious to her. There was a moment’s constraint, Eve feeling herself at a disadvantage.
“I thought you might like to talk.”