Part 21 (1/2)
”Shall we sit here?” she said, pointing to two chairs under some palm trees by a little table.
”Yes. Why not?” returned Susan Fleet.
They sat down.
”Do you feel better?” asked Susan.
”I shall.”
”It must be dreadful being ill at sea. I never am.”
”And you have travelled a great deal, haven't you?”
”Yes, I have. I often go with Adelaide. Once we went to India.”
”Was it there you became a Theosophist?”
”That had something to do with it, I suppose. When we were at Benares Adelaide thought she would like to live there. The day after she thought so she found we must go away.”
Miss Fleet carefully peeled off her white gloves and leaned back. Her odd eyes seemed to drop in their sockets, as if they were trying to tumble out.
”Isn't it--” Charmian began, and stopped abruptly.
”Yes?”
”I don't know what I was going to say.”
”Perhaps a great bore not to be one's own mistress?” suggested Miss Fleet, composedly.
”Something of that sort perhaps.”
”Oh, no! I'm accustomed to it. Freedom is a phrase. I'm quite as free as Adelaide. It's usually a great mistake to pity servants.”
”And oneself? I suppose you would say it was a great mistake to pity oneself?”
”I never do it,” replied Miss Fleet.
She had charming hands. One of them lay on the little table with a beam of the sun on it.
”Perhaps you haven't great desires? Perhaps you don't want many things?”
”I suppose I've been like most women in that respect. But I shall be fifty almost directly.”
”How frightful!” was Charmian's mental comment.
”No, it isn't.”
”Isn't what?” said Charmian, startled.
”It isn't at all awful to be fifty, or any other age, if you accept it quietly as inevitable. But everything one kicks against hurts one, of course. I expect to pa.s.s a very pleasant day on my fiftieth birthday.”