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 Annabel Scott with David Moray, and Hubert Garratt silent and depressed. They too came over to the fire, Annabel with her smiling charm, David the tallest of the men, his fair hair always a little rough no matter how much it was brushed. Sally’s heart gave an angry jerk. He was a thoroughly tiresome creature. He wasn’t in the least the sort of man she had ever meant to fall in love with. She wasn’t in love with him. She hadn’t any intention of being in love with anyone for years and years and years. It was a pleasant thing to play with, but go in head over ears and get drowned in it-no thank you!

They were talking and laughing now. Annabel’s entrance had made the conversation general. Sally spoke and laughed, and saw that David did neither. He just stood there on the outer edge of the group and looked at Moira Herne. Her glimmering hair was like an auriole. She was wearing something that was the colour of splintered ice. Her hands were ringless and her neck was bare. Her eyes were like pale jewels, water-bright.

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 manner. She began an indistinguishable murmur in which most of the words were lost, but it was broken in upon by David Moray, who took this moment to cross over to Moira Herne and to say without any preliminaries, “I would like to paint you.”

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.”

Annabel Scott laughed her attractive laugh.

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

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

Annabel said, “I don’t know. She was a priestess in the temple of Pallas Athene. She took a lover there, and the goddess punished her by turning her into a gorgon.”

Moira said, “Oh-” and Annabel went on sweetly.

“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, “Dinner is served.”

As they went in, Lucius Bellingdon said to Annabel Scott,

“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 Annabel had called him darling. All these young things called everyone darling and it meant nothing at all, but it was the first time Annabel had said it to him.

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.”