“What?”
“Why, all that.”
Eve swept a hand towards the valley where the smoking squadrons of the mist were in full flight before the gold spears of the sun.
“It looks as though it has been abominably damp. I’m quite stiff and I’ve caught cold.”
She blew her nose hard, and, like the impervious enthusiast that she was, resumed her scribbling. Eve left her undisturbed, and returning to her corner of the recess let her hair down, and spent ten minutes brushing it. She had very fine hair, it reached well below her waist, and Lizzie Straker, who had just woke up, found something to say on the subject.
“It must be a nuisance, having a fleece like that.”
“Why?”
“So beastly hot. I should like to have mine cut quite short.”
The obvious answer, though Eve did not give it, was that some people’s hair did not matter.
She went exploring in quest of somebody who would provide them with towels and water, and also with breakfast. And when they did get breakfast at a little farmhouse over the hill, her companions had to thank Eve for it, for the farmer’s wife was not a persuadable person, and would certainly have refused anything to Joan Gaunt or Lizzie Straker. Their white blouses were splashed and streaked with yellow, but luckily the sitting-room was rather dark, and the farmer’s wife was not observant.