IV
In the small panelled room that gave on to the herb-garden, Angela yawned as she stared through the window; then she suddenly laughed out loud at her thoughts; then she suddenly frowned and spoke crossly to Tony.
She could not get Stephen out of her mind, and this irritated while it amused her. Stephen was so large to be tongue-tied and frightened—a curious creature, not devoid of attraction. In a way—her own way—she was almost handsome; no, quite handsome; she had fine eyes and beautiful hair. And her body was supple like that of an athlete, narrow-hipped and wide shouldered, she should fence very well. Angela was anxious to see her fence; she must certainly try to arrange it somehow.
Mrs. Antrim had conveyed a number of things, while actually saying extremely little; but Angela had no need of her hints, not now that she had come to know Stephen Gordon. And because she was idle, discontented and bored, and certainly not overburdened with virtue, she must let her thoughts dwell unduly on this girl, while her curiosity kept pace with her thoughts.
Tony stretched and whimpered, so Angela kissed him, then she sat down and wrote quite a short little letter: “Do come over to lunch the day after tomorrow and advise me about the garden,” ran the letter. And it ended—after one or two casual remarks about gardens—with: “Tony says please come, Stephen!”