Charlotte was, so divided between two worlds, and yet apparently at home in both-as she had pointed out, that could only be accomplished by proving that someone else was guilty.
She leaned forward and rapped on the front wall of the carriage. 'Please hurry!' she shouted urgently. 'You are going too slowly! What are you waiting for?'
She presented her card to Lady Mary's maid and watched the ramrod back of the girl as she took it away to show her mistress. Zenobia did not intend to lie as to her purpose in coming; it was not in her nature to tell petty lies, she had no art for it, and she could not think of a lie grand enough to serve the purpose.
The girl returned and showed her into the withdrawing room, where a large fire burned in spite of the clement weather. Mary Carfax sat upright in a gold-ornamented French chair. She concealed her surprise because her curiosity overrode it, and since that was an ill-bred emotion she did not own, she did her best to conceal that also.
'How agreeable to see you again-so soon,' she said in a voice that veered from one tone to another as she tried to decide which attitude to adopt. 'I feared that-' but she
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changed her mind again, that was too inferior. 'I supposed it would be a dull afternoon,' she said instead. 'How are you? Please do sit down and be comfortable. The weather is most pleasant, don't you think?'
Zenobia had barely noticed it, but the conversation must be conducted with civility, whatever it cost.
'Delightful,' she agreed, taking the seat farthest from the fire. 'There are numerous blossoms out, and the air is quite mild. I passed several people walking in the park, and there was a German band playing in the rotunda.'
'One looks forward to the summer.' Lady Mary was bursting with inquisitiveness as to why Zenobia, who patently disliked her, should have called at all, let alone twice in the space of a fortnight. 'Shall you be attending Ascot, or Henley? I find the races tire me, but one should be seen, don't you agree?'
Zenobia swallowed her retort and forced an amiable expression to her face. 'I am sure your friends will be disappointed if you do not go, but I fear I may not find it suitable. There is a member of my family touched at present by a tragedy, and if matters get worse, I shall not feel in the slightest like enjoying such social events.'
Lady Mary shifted minutely in her seat and her fingers closed over the ornate curlicues on the ends of the chair arms. 'Indeed? I am sorry.' She hesitated, then plunged ahead. 'Can I offer any assistance?'
Zenobia swallowed hard. She thought of Peter Holland that last night before he sailed for the Crimea. How he would have laughed at this! He would have seen the danger-and the absurdity. 'You might tell me something about those women who are striving to obtain the franchise.' She saw the immediate tightening of disapproval in Lady Mary's face, the drawing together of the brows and the sharpening of the pale blue eyes. 'What manner of people are they? Indeed, who are they?'
'What they are is very easy,' Lady Mary replied. 'They 224
are women who have failed to make a suitable marriage, or who have an unnaturally masculine turn of mind and desire to dominate rather than be the domestic, gracious, and sensitive creatures they were intended to be, both by God and nature. They are women who have neither made themselves attractive nor acquired such arts and accomplishments as are becoming to a woman and useful in her natural functions of bearing and raising children and ordering a house which is a refuge of quiet and decency for her husband, away from the evils of the world. Why any woman should choose otherwise I cannot imagine-except, of course, as a revenge upon those of us who are normal, whom they cannot or will not emulate. I regret to say there is a growing number of such creatures, and they endanger the very fabric of society.'' Her eyebrows rose. 'I trust you will have nothing to do with them, even if your natural instincts and your spinster circumstances tempt you!' For a moment malice was plain in her eyes, and old memories sharp. Mary Carfax's pretense at pity was a sham; she had forgotten and forgiven nothing.
'Heaven knows,' she continued in her rather thin voice, 'there is enough unrest and distress in the country already. People are actually criticizing the Queen, and I believe there is talk of revolution and anarchy. Government is threatened on all sides.'' She sighed heavily. ' 'One only has to consider these ghastly outrages oin Westminster Bridge to realize that the whole of society is in peril.'
'Do you think so?' Zenobia affected a mixture of doubt and respect, but there was a fleeting smile inside her, an old fragment of warmth, like a snatch of song returning.
'I am certain of
