The Listening Eye

She snatched up her hand-glass, went to the window, pushed back the amber curtains as far as they would go, and faced the light. The yellow room receded and her spirits rose. The dress really was pretty, and she definitely didn’t look as if she was getting jaundice. She finished herself off and went downstairs feeling better.

She was going to need all the moral support that she could get, because when she got into the drawing-room Moira was there with Wilfrid and Clay Masterson, and none of them took the least notice of her. They were grouped round the fireplace, and as the temperature had in the last hour decided on one of those melodramatic drops which make the English spring so delightful, the hearth had its attractions. The fact that nobody made room for her set a spark to Sally’s temper. She walked up to them, was stared at by Moira, and greeted by Wilfrid with an insulting “Darling, you look cold.”

Sally said, “I am cold.”

“Darling, so am I. And I was here first!”

Wilfrid was naturally capable of anything. She had always known that, and as far as he was concerned her feelings were armoured. She got between him and Clay Masterson and felt pleased with herself. No one had introduced them, but Moira never did introduce anyone. All her set were supposed to know each other. Sally wasn’t really in her set.

Clay said, “What were we talking about?” in the kind of voice which means that someone has butted in and spoiled whatever it was you were going to say. In the circumstances, it was perhaps not surprising that she did not find herself attracted to him, but she supposed that some people might have found him attractive. He had rather the air of expecting it himself. Of medium height, not handsome and not plain-Sally found herself summing him up as very sure of himself. She supposed that would go down with some people. With Moira for instance. Moira was a trampler. If you gave her an inch, she would take an ell and despise you from the depths of whatever did duty for a heart, and she liked someone who would stand up to her and give as good as he got. Clay was saying,

“It was a marvellous piece of luck! And the fool hadn’t the slightest idea of what he’d got. Said he’d done the place up proper when he got married somewhere about fifty years ago-bought a nice upholstered suite and shoved the old stuff away in the attic! And there it was-oak dresser, very good lines, and a lovely corner-cupboard. Handles all gone of course.”

Wilfrid laughed.

“Well, take care you haven’t been had!” he said. “That’s quite a good confidence trick, you know-reproductions well weathered and knocked about a bit and shoved away in an attic or an out-house.”

Clay Masterson said,

“I wasn’t born yesterday.”

And then the door opened to let in A

They were talking and laughing now. A

He went on looking whilst Lucius Bellingdon came in. He was followed by Miss Bray in a hurry. She must have been in a hurry when she dressed too, for her old-fashioned black lace was done up crooked and her hair was wispy. Behind her came Miss Silver, quiet and composed, in the neat dark blue crepe-de-chine which her niece Ethel Burkett had persuaded her to buy during their holiday at Cliffton-on-Sea. The price had shocked her at the time, but the dress had proved to be a Stand-by. It was suitable, it was ladylike.

Moira Herne turned her gaze upon Miss Bray and said,

“Late again, Ellen? What about the example to the young? I expect Mrs. Hilton will give notice. She will if it’s something that’s going to spoil. It must be damnable to be a cook and have people late for meals. I should want to throw the soup at them.” Her voice drawled a little. It had no inflexions.

Miss Bray flushed in an unbecoming ma

Moira did not appear to be displeased. The pale bright eyes were turned upon him. Since he was so tall, she had to look up, which enhanced the effect.

“You want to paint my portrait? What would you want for doing it-a frightful lot? What about it, Lucy? You would have to pay for it. I’m broke.”

David was looking at her between narrowing lids. Without waiting for Lucius Bellingdon to speak he said in quite a casual way,

“No, not a portrait. A head. Medusa.”

She stared.

“Medusa? What do you mean? Was she somebody?” She looked round the group. “Does anyone know who she was? Because I don’t. I never could be bothered with things like history. After all, it’s now you have to live. I can’t see any sense in cluttering your mind up with who people were or what they did hundreds of years ago.”

A

“Medusa goes back a long way farther than that!”

“Does she? Why does he think I’m like her?”

A

Moira said, “Oh-” and A

“They had clashing wings and they were horrible to look at, but Medusa kept her beautiful face, only snakes, grew out of her hair, and her eyes turned people to stone.”

Moira appeared to consider this information. Then she stared at David.

“Were you going to paint snakes in my hair?”

“Oh, no.”

“Or clashing wings?”

“No-just the head.”

She said without any change in her voice or expression,

“It might be rather fun. You could start tomorrow.”

The door opened. Hilton appeared on the threshold. He looked like a man whose wife had just been speaking her mind. He said, “Di

As they went in, Lucius Bellingdon said to A

“Just what did all that mean?”

“That he wants to paint her.”

His eyebrows rose.

“As Medusa?”

“So he says-but without the snakes.”

“Then why Medusa?”

“Darling, if you don’t know, I can’t tell you.”

At the moment he could only be aware that A

They had reached the dining-room before he had himself enough in hand to say,

“We’ll see what he makes of it. That young man can paint.”