Oh, the things she was going to get fond of!  The things that her poor, round foolish eyes gloated upon the moment that she saw them!  Joan tried to enlist the shopman on her side, descending even to flirtation.  Unfortunately he was a young man with a high sense of duty, convinced that his employer’s interests lay in his support of Mrs. Phillips.  The sight of the furniture that, between them, they selected for the dining-room gave Joan a quite distinct internal pain.  They ascended to the floor above, devoted to the exhibition of “Recherche drawing-room suites.”  Mrs. Phillips’s eye instinctively fastened with passionate desire upon the most atrocious.  Joan grew vehement.  It was impossible.

“I always was a one for cheerful colours,” explained Mrs. Phillips.

Even the shopman wavered.  Joan pressed her advantage; directed Mrs. Phillips’s attention to something a little less awful.  Mrs. Phillips yielded.

“Of course you know best, dear,” she admitted.  “Perhaps I am a bit too fond of bright things.”

The victory was won.  Mrs. Phillips had turned away.  The shopman was altering the order.  Joan moved towards the door, and accidentally caught sight of Mrs. Phillips’s face.  The flabby mouth was trembling.  A tear was running down the painted cheek.

Joan slipped her hand through the other’s arm.

“I’m not so sure you’re not right after all,” she said, fixing a critical eye upon the rival suites.  “It is a bit mousey, that other.”

The order was once more corrected.  Joan had the consolation of witnessing the childish delight that came again into the foolish face; but felt angry with herself at her own weakness.

It was the woman’s feebleness that irritated her.  If only she had shown a spark of fight, Joan could have been firm.  Poor feckless creature, what could have ever been her attraction for Phillips!

She followed, inwardly fuming, while Mrs. Phillips continued to pile monstrosity upon monstrosity.  What would Phillips think?  And what would Hilda’s eyes say when they looked upon that recherche drawing-room suite?  Hilda, who would have had no sentimental compunctions!  The woman would be sure to tell them both that she, Joan, had accompanied her and helped in the choosing.  The whole ghastly house would be exhibited to every visitor as the result of their joint taste.  She could hear Mr. Airlie’s purring voice congratulating her.

She ought to have insisted on their going to a decent shop.  The mere advertisement ought to have forewarned her.  It was the posters that had captured Mrs. Phillips:  those dazzling apartments where bejewelled society reposed upon the “high-class but inexpensive designs” of Mr. Krebs.  Artists ought to have more self-respect than to sell their talents for such purposes.