Devereux, who stood by the fire.
Eyebrows exchanged signals.
Then Mrs. Devereux said, "I am most uncomfortable," and Mrs. Wilmot
sighed, "I know."
IV
The quiet cause of discomfort, slippered and loose-robed, sat meanwhile in
an easy-chair, with her feet in the fender. Her hair floated free about
her shoulders, silky from the brush. She had a book on her knees, but did
not read it. Instead she looked into the fire, frowning.
Faint lines now printed themselves upon her face; two between her brows,
one defining the round of each fair cheek. Her eyes showed fathomless
sapphire: whatever her thoughts were of they held the secret close. Their
gaze was one of fascination, as if she saw things in the fire terrible and
strange, figures of the past or of the future, from which she could not
turn her face. The curve of her upper lip, where it lay along its fellow
and made a dimpled end, sharpened and grew bleak. Poring and smiling into
the fire, she looked like a Sibyl envisaging the fate of men, not
concerned in it, yet absorbed, interested in the play, not at all in the
persons. This friend of Mrs. Benson, this midnight mate of young
gardeners, disturber of high ladies' comfort, serene controller of
Wanless, she was, it would seem, all things to all men, as men could take
her.
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