AC dBooks

Had she--even she--in her poor, drab, little life--had her
moments of living Poetry, of transforming Colour, like others--without
knowing it?
Helena watched her, as though in a quick, unspoken sympathy, her own
storm of feeling subsiding.
"Do you know, Lucy, you look very nice indeed in that little black
dress!" she said, in her soft, low voice, like the voice of an
incantation, that she had used the night before. "You are the neatest,
daintiest person!--not prim--but you make everything you wear refined.
When I compare you with Cynthia Welwyn!"
She raised her shoulders scornfully. Lucy Friend, aghast at the
outrageousness of the comparison, tried to silence her--but quite in
vain. Helena ran on.
"Did you watch Cynthia last night? She was playing for Cousin Philip with
all her might. Why doesn't he marry her? She would suit his autocratic
ideas very well. He is forty-four. She must be thirty-eight if she is a
day. They have both got money--which Cynthia can't do without, for she is
horribly extravagant. But I wouldn't give much for her chances.


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