Jennifer was on her feet, voluble, calling loud good-nights. They made a group round her and round somebody still sitting on the floor beside her. Judith caught a glimpse of a dark head leaning motionless against the mantelpiece. Now they were all going away. Judith followed them slowly to the door and there paused, looking over her shoulder towards the fireplace. ‘Stay,’ said Jennifer shrilly. She was standing and staring at Judith with wild eyes; pale, with a deep patch of colour in each cheek, and lips parted. ‘No, I must go. I’ve got some work,’ said Judith, smiling over her shoulder. She let her eyes drop from Jennifer’s face to the other one. At last it confronted her, the silent-looking face, watching behind its narrowed eyes. The hair was black, short, brushed straight back from the forehead, leaving small beautiful ears exposed. The heavy eyebrows came low and level on the low broad brow; the eyes were long slits, dark-circled, the cheeks were pale, the jaw heavy and masculine. All the meaning of the face was concentrated in the mouth, the strange wide lips laid rather flat on the face, sulky, passionate, weary, eager. She was not a young girl. It was the face of a woman of thirty or more; but in years she might have been younger. She was tall, deep-breasted, with long, heavy but shapely limbs. She wore a black frock and a pearl necklace, and large pearl earrings. Judith said politely: ‘Is this the first time you have been here?’ ‘No.’ She laughed. Her voice was an insolent voice. ‘I’m tired,’ said Jennifer suddenly, like a child. ‘You look it,’ said Judith. ‘Go to bed.’ ‘I’ll get undressed.’ Jennifer passed a hand across her forehead and sighed. The woman by the fireplace fitted a cigarette into an amber holder slowly, and lit it. ‘I’m not sleepy yet,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait till you’re in bed and come and tuck you up.’ ‘This room feels----’ cried Jennifer staring around her in horror. She dashed to the window and flung it wide open; then disappeared into her bedroom; and there was not another sound from her. The woman started singing to herself very low, as if forgetful of Judith’s presence; then broke off to say: ‘I like your kimono.’ Judith wrapped the long red and blue silk garment more closely round her hips. ‘Yes. It was brought me from Japan. I gave Jennifer one. A purple one.’ ‘Oh, that one. She’s lent it to me. I forgot to bring a dressing-gown.’ She turned her head away, as if to intimate that so far as she was concerned conversation was neither interesting nor necessary. Judith bit back the ‘Good-night, Jennifer’ which she was about to call; for she was never going to care any more what happened to Jennifer; never again soothe her when she was weary and excited, comfort her when she was unhappy. She would look at Jennifer coldly, observe her vagaries and entanglements with a shrug, comment upon them with detached and cynical amusement: hurt her, if possible, oh, hurt her, hurt her.