“I wish I could see an empty taxi,” she said.
She had a sudden horror of Lydia—a horror queerly mingled with fierce jealousy. Why should Lydia, with her gross materialism, be leading this unruffled existence?
“Are you in a hurry?” Lydia asked placidly.
“I’ve an appointment with—my dentist.”
“We’ll get in here and wait till we see a taxi,” said Lydia.
They stood in the recess of a private doorway, by the bow-window of a print shop.
“You’re not looking well, my dear,” said Lydia quite affectionately. “Marriage doesn’t seem to agree with you. What’s the matter?”
Olivia flashed: “Nothing’s the matter.”
“How’s your husband?”
“Very well.”