The other two women accepted this new favourite of Eddie’s with resigned tolerance; they made use of her, but they were quite kind. They, too, had an influence on Angelica; they taught her something, a little of the compromise that must be made with life. You didn’t have to love people or to hate them--you had only to get on with them. She could not but admire their charming good-humour, their complete lack of the aggressiveness which the people she had known before had been obliged to cultivate. They were all three so _comfortable_ together! II It was one of those summer afternoons which had such an indescribable charm for Angelica. She wasn’t used to idleness, and it delighted her, this sitting about, with a long stretch of empty hours ahead, to fill as one pleased. They were all in Mrs. Russell’s big, airy room, with the green blinds drawn down and flapping in a steady little breeze. It was very hot, and, as was their custom when Eddie was not home, they were in undress. Polly hated the hot weather, and didn’t care to move; she lay on a rattan couch, smoking, with her eyes closed, and with an electric fan blowing across her. Mrs. Russell was stretched out in a deck chair; beside her stood a small table with a bottle of whiskey and a siphon of soda, of which she partook from time to time--very small drinks, but tolerably frequent. Her face was crimson; her hair, for greater coolness, was pulled back into a tight knot; she wore very little but a lace combing-jacket and a short silk petticoat, which, as she sat with her long legs crossed, showed a great expanse of gray silk stocking. She was a freak, a fright, whatever you like, but she had a certain ineffaceable distinction. Her voice, her gestures--Angelica watched her with interest. She was telling jokes, outrageous stories that convulsed the other two with laughter. "My _dear_! _Where_ do you hear such things?" Polly protested after each one, and lay waiting for more. Angelica rejoiced in a lovely cast-off garment of Mrs. Russell’s, light as gossamer, pale yellow, with taffeta bows. Its coquetry was incongruous with her dark and somber face, but it was bewitching, nevertheless. She sat in a low rocking-chair opposite a mirror, content to look now and then and to speculate endlessly upon the destiny of that thin, languorous figure, dressed like a rich person, lounging like one, beautiful, mysterious, alluring. Her bare arms were clasped behind her head, in that attitude which so well reveals the line of neck and bust. Seen from the door, in profile, she would have been an exquisite picture. And she was seen from the door. Mrs. Russell, facing in that direction, gave a start of surprise, so that Angelica turned and saw a man standing there. He was a big, heavy, swaggering fellow, in baggy knickerbockers and an old shooting-jacket hanging loosely from his powerful shoulders, with a fierce, hawk-like face and bright gray eyes. He looked at them with a sort of contemptuous amusement.