She wore a blue frock without any
collar, and her face and long, round neck were very sunburnt. Her face
had hardened in the last four months, and there was a tense look about
her upper lip, yet an artist would have preferred her face as it now was
to what it was before she had become engaged. For now the nervous strain
she was living under had told on her more material beauties, leaving
more room for expression, as it seemed, to the others.
It was not that her face was better, but the suffering in it was less
petty than the resentment that had formerly stamped it.
The dominant characteristic in it had hitherto been disdainful bearing
of small annoyances; now it showed a grim endurance of a great
suffering.
"Bicky, dear," Pam asked suddenly, coming up unheard, "what is it?"
She started. "What is what?"
"Your trouble. Oh, don't tell me if you don't want to, but I can see you
are suffering, and--I used to tell the Duchess, long ago, and it always
did me good."
"Did you tell the Duchess about--Mr. Peele, Pam?"
The elder woman smiled and sighed. "No, my dear, I didn't. But--he was
her son-in-law."
"That wasn't why." Brigit had not moved, and Pam had seen no more than
her profile as she sat down.
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