He couldn't forget it. As he sat there trying to read, it came between him and his book. It tormented him to find its meaning. Kitty's face was a thing both delicate and crude. When she was gay it showed a blurred edge, a fineness in peril. When she was sad it wore the fixed look of artificial maturity. It was like a young bud opened by inquisitive fingers and forced to be a flower. Some day, the day before it withered, the bruised veins would glow again, and a hectic spot betray, like a bruise, the violation of its bloom. At the moment, repose gave back its beauty to Kitty's face. Lucy noticed that the large black pupils of her eyes were ringed with a dark blue iris, spotted with black. There was no colour about her at all except that blue, and the delicate red of her mouth. In her black gown she was a revelation of pure form. Colour would have obscured her, made her ineffectual. He sat silent, hardly daring to look at her. So keen was his sense of her that he could almost have heard the beating of her breast against her gown. Once she sighed, and Lucy stirred. Once she stirred slightly, and Lucy, unconsciously responsive, sighed. Then Kitty's glance lit on him. He turned a page of his book ostentatiously, and Kitty's glance slunk home again. She closed her eyes and opened them to find Lucy's eyes looking at her over the top of his book. Poor Lucy was so perturbed at being detected in that particular atrocity that he rose, drew his chair to the hearth, and arranged himself in an attitude that made these things impossible. He was presently aware of Jane launching herself on a gentle tide of conversation, and of Mrs. Tailleur trembling pathetically on the brink of it. "Do you like Southbourne?" he heard Jane saying. Then suddenly Mrs. Tailleur plunged in. "No," said she; "I hate it. I hate any place I have to be alone in, if it's only for five minutes." Lucy felt that it was Jane who drew back now, in sheer distress. He tried to think of something to say, and gave it up, stultified by his compassion. The silence was broken by Jane. "Robert," said she, "have you written to the children?" Mrs. Tailleur's face became suddenly sombre and intent. "No; I haven't. I clean forgot it." He went off to write his letter. When he came back Mrs. Tailleur had risen and was saying good night to Jane. He followed her to the portière and drew it back for her to pass. As she turned to thank him she glanced up at the hand that held the portière. It trembled violently. Her eyes, a moment ago dark under her bent forehead, darted a sudden light sidelong. She paused, interrogative, expectant. Lucy bowed. As Mrs. Tailleur passed out she looked back over her shoulder, smiling again her incomprehensible smile. The portière dropped behind her. CHAPTER V