Rachel turned abruptly to the window. She did not know what it was that
had put her into such a passion; the sight of Terence in the hall had
confused her thoughts, leaving her merely indignant. She looked straight
at their own villa, half-way up the side of the mountain. The most
familiar view seen framed through glass has a certain unfamiliar
distinction, and she grew calm as she gazed. Then she remembered that
she was in the presence of some one she did not know well, and she
turned and looked at Mrs. Flushing. Mrs. Flushing was still sitting
on the edge of the bed, looking up, with her lips parted, so that her
strong white teeth showed in two rows.
"Tell me," she said, "which d'you like best, Mr. Hewet or Mr. Hirst?"
"Mr. Hewet," Rachel replied, but her voice did not sound natural.
"Which is the one who reads Greek in church?" Mrs. Flushing demanded.
It might have been either of them and while Mrs. Flushing proceeded
to describe them both, and to say that both frightened her, but one
frightened her more than the other, Rachel looked for a chair. The room,
of course, was one of the largest and most luxurious in the hotel. There
were a great many arm-chairs and settees covered in brown holland, but
each of these was occupied by a large square piece of yellow cardboard,
and all the pieces of cardboard were dotted or lined with spots or
dashes of bright oil paint.
Pages:
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341