The Grants were in
town, and Cyril was dining with them. I found I did not know many
people, and cared little for those I did. I was about to escape
when Miss Fawley's name was announced. I was close to the door,
and she had to stop and speak to me. We exchanged a few
commonplaces. She either made love to a man or was rude to him.
She generally talked to me without looking at me, nodding and
smiling meanwhile to people around. I have met many women equally
ill-mannered, and without her excuse. For a moment, however, she
turned her eyes to mine.
"Where's your friend, Mr. Harjohn?" she asked. "I thought you were
inseparables."
I looked at her in astonishment.
"He is dining out to-night," I replied. "I do not think he will
come."
She laughed. I think it was the worst part about the woman, her
laugh; it suggested so much cruelty.
"I think he will," she said.
It angered me into an indiscretion. She was moving away. I
stepped in front of her and stopped her.
"What makes you think so?" I asked, and my voice, I know, betrayed
the anxiety I felt as to her reply. She looked me straight in the
face.
Pages:
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95