Four Strange Women by E.R. Punshon

than is usual and a jacket she wore of glittering gold sequins had a striking effect. Bobby noticed also that in her movements she showed much of that grace and ease he had observed both in Becky Glynne and in Gwen Barton and that he supposed they learned from playing tennis.
    There was a little small talk. The general refused the sherry his host offered him, but Hazel accepted a cocktail and drank it eagerly. Bobby thought her manner strained and uneasy, and he began to think, too, that in the way in which she still looked at him, there was something not only questioning but both doubtful and defiant, as though she were asking herself whether he were friend or foe. He was conscious of an impression that with her it had to be very completely either one or the other, and that where she gave either her love or her hate she gave it wholeheartedly. He remembered having heard that her mother was a Spaniard, so possibly it was from her she had inherited her hair that seemed like night itself, those dark and passionate eyes under their heavy brows, that intense manner as of bubbling fires beneath. Bobby felt he could understand better now he had seen her the references tennis commentators often made to the fierce intensity of her play, and their criticism that until she learned not to throw all she had into her first games, keeping nothing in reserve, she would never win the championship.
    But then, Bobby reflected, if she ceased to give her all at once, if she thought about guarding reserves, she would cease to be herself, and those who cease to be themselves lose far more than they gain. He reflected, too, how entirely and utterly different were these four types of modern girlhood he had met in the last twenty-four hours—Lady May, the society beauty; Becky Glynne, bitter and frustrated; Hazel Hannay, dark and passionate, caring evidently very little for the conventions; Gwen Barton, something of an enigma with her apparent insignificance, her devotion to her lover, the odd fascination of her own to which that lover had so plainly and so utterly succumbed.
    Dinner was announced and they went in. Len Glynne and Lady May were already in the room and Becky Glynne appeared just as her father was asking where she was. She and her brother exchanged scowls, and Bobby would hardly have been surprised to see them start throwing the plates and knives at each other’s heads. Bobby found himself seated between the general and Lady May, who was next to their host and opposite Len Glynne. The general, noticing that Len had his thumb bandaged, blinked at it mildly and asked how it had happened, with much such an air of concern as a maiden aunt might show over a small boy’s damaged knee. Len answered loudly that he had been bitten by a vicious cat. Bobby, busy with his soup, saw how Becky went first red and then white with rage, and the general seemed quite distressed and said that was bad, because a cat’s bite was often infectious and might lead to blood poisoning. Len answered that he knew that, that it was because cats were fond of raking dirt over, and therefore he had been very careful to have the bite carefully disinfected. Becky said nothing and appeared to take no notice, but Bobby was very certain that it was all she could do to control the pale fury her features showed. He noticed that she did not finish her soup but put down her spoon and hid her hands under the table, and he knew this was because she could not master their trembling and did not wish it to be noticed.
    â€œLooks like bad trouble brewing,” Bobby told himself uncomfortably; “and what’s more, their father knows it. A nice hornet’s nest I’ve got myself pushed into.”
    In fact the only two at the table who seemed unaware of the feeling between brother and sister were the mild- mannered general, whose short-sighted eyes appeared to notice so little, and Lady May, who had not, Bobby thought, much of that quick and ready