In her latter mood Judith chose savagely to despise Celia for her defection from her lover; at the same time she lent small ear to love-proffers, absorbed in a different passion. For the hatred of Celia, who did not think of her once a week, was grown to a passion. It was at this time hardly a matter of resolve that Celia did not think of Judith, unless some vision obtruded itself of her, driving past with Jess, whose little sallow face--owing its effect of malignity perhaps to a defect of the eyes, of which one never could quite ascertain the nature--was so well fitted to set off the proud bloom of hers. A strain of magnificence had developed in her: she was perpetually organizing festivities, picnics, water-parties, lawn-parties: her garden could be seen a mile away at night, festooned with Chinese lanterns, while the village band played among the trees, and the contingent of the village people which she had formed into "her set" ate ices on her verandah. Effluvia of these doings drifted necessarily to the Comptons. But in time Celia began finding herself subjected to small occasional pin-pricks of annoyance at things reported to her as having been said by Judith. They were repeated without malicious intention, mostly as being funny. The village dressmaker, who sometimes sewed for Celia, was employed as well by Judith. It might almost have been supposed part of this woman's business to tell the village news while, as was the custom, one sat and sewed with her. Celia expected it as much as that she should bring her thimble and wax. Miss Greene was one of her oldest village associations, a "character" she was called, and was a privileged and much-quoted person. She felt a whole-souled allegiance to the Comptons, but no less to the new-comer, Judith Bray, who had been lavish to her as to everybody. She "did not know as the one interfered with the other." When she liked a person, the bent of her disposition was to tell her everything, but particularly whatever in the most distant way had reference to her. She said to Celia one day, without ceasing to push her gathering needle, "You know who Judy Bray thinks you like?... in looks?... Well, you never would guess it! Not 'cause there ain't nothin' in it, though ... for after you've been told, you'll see it at once. She says she can never see Beech--Beechnut, your dog, you know--without it makes her think of you." Celia felt an inward start. The dog had been given her by some one very dear, and she saw at once by what perhaps unconscious association of ideas it was probable the animal had been selected for her. Some vague resemblance unmistakably existed between herself and the red-haired setter, with his delicate long face and air at once noble and mournful. She felt no inclination to resent the comparison in itself, though she knew it had been meant ill-naturedly; but she chafed under the sense of the power possessed by the first-comer to belittle one at pleasure, if it be only in words.