She looked as though she were hiding something
discreditable but delightful. Certainly her customary clear expression
of candor was not there, and its place was taken by a kind of
suppressed and frightened pleasedness, which would have led a more
worldly-minded audience to the instant conviction of recent and
probably impassioned lovemaking.
Beauty, beauty, beauty . . . the words kept ringing in her ears as
she stood on the platform talking of sad things to the sparsely attended
meeting. She had never been to Italy. Was that really what her nest-egg
was to be spent on after all? Though she couldn't approve of the
way Mrs. Wilkins was introducing the idea of predestination into her
immediate future, just as if she had no choice, just as if to struggle,
or even to reflect, were useless, it yet influenced her. Mrs.
Wilkins's eyes had been the eyes of a seer. Some people were like
that, Mrs. Arbuthnot knew; and if Mrs. Wilkins had actually seen her at
the mediaeval castle it did seem probable that struggling would be a
waste of time. Still, to spend her nest-egg on self-indulgence-- The
origin of this egg had been corrupt, but she had at least supposed its
end was to be creditable. Was she to deflect it from its intended
destination, which alone had appeared to justify her keeping it, and
spend it on giving herself pleasure?
Mrs.
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