“You shall dine with me this evening,” said I, and Carlotta cooed with pleasure.

I perceive that she is gradually growing westernised.

July 8th.

In obedience to a peremptory note from Judith, I took Carlotta this afternoon to Tottenham Mansions.  I shook hands with my hostess, turned round and said

“This, my dear Judith, is Carlotta.”

“I am very pleased to see you,” said Judith.

“So am I,” replied Carlotta, not to be outdone in politeness.

She sat bolt upright, most correctly, on the edge of a chair, and responded monosyllabically to Judith’s questions.  Her demeanour could not have been more impeccable had she been trained in a French convent.  Just before we arrived, she had been laughing immoderately because I had ordered her to spit out a mass of horrible sweetmeat which she had found it impossible to masticate, and she had challenged me to extract it with my fingers.  But now, compared with her, Saint Nitouche was a Maenad.  I was entertained by Judith’s fruitless efforts to get behind this wall of reserve.  Carlotta said,” Oh, ye-es” or “No-o” to everything.  It was not a momentous conversation.  As it was Carlotta in whom Judith was particularly interested, I effaced myself.  At last, after a lull in the spasmodic talk, Carlotta said, very politely: 

“Mrs. Mainwaring has a beautiful house.”

“It’s only a tiny flat.  Would you like to look over it?” asked Judith, eagerly, flashing me a glance that plainly said, “Now that I shall have her to myself, you may trust me to get to the bottom of her.”

“I would like it very much,” said Carlotta, rising.

I held the door open for them to pass out, and lit a cigarette.  When they returned ten minutes afterwards, Carlotta was smiling and self-possessed, evidently very well pleased with herself, but Judith had a red spot on each of her cheeks.

The sight of her smote me with an odd new feeling of pity.  I cannot dismiss the vision from my mind.  All the evening I have seen the two women standing side by side, a piteous parable.  The light from the window shone full upon them, and the dark curtain of the door was an effective background.  The one flaunted the sweet insolence of youth, health, colour, beauty; of the bud just burst into full flower.  The other wore the stamp of care, of the much knowledge wherein is much sorrow, and in her eyes dwelled the ghosts of dead years.  She herself looked like a ghost-dressed in white pique, which of itself drew the colour from her white face and pale lips and mass of faint straw-coloured hair, the pallor of all which was accentuated by the red spots on her cheeks and her violet eyes.

I saw that something had occurred to vex her.

“Before we go,” I said, “I should like a word with you.  Carlotta will not mind.”

We went into the dining-room.  I took her hand which was cold, in spite of the July warmth.