forth beyond her control.

"I thought it the most loathsome exhibition I'd ever seen!" she broke
out. "How can they--how dare they--what do you mean by it--Mr. Bax,
hospital nurses, old men, prostitutes, disgusting--"

She hit off the points she remembered as fast as she could, but she was
too indignant to stop to analyse her feelings. Mrs. Flushing watched her
with keen gusto as she stood ejaculating with emphatic movements of her
head and hands in the middle of the room.

"Go on, go on, do go on," she laughed, clapping her hands. "It's
delightful to hear you!"

"But why do you go?" Rachel demanded.

"I've been every Sunday of my life ever since I can remember," Mrs.
Flushing chuckled, as though that were a reason by itself.

Rachel turned abruptly to the window. She did not know what it was that
had put her into such a passion; the sight of Terence in the hall had
confused her thoughts, leaving her merely indignant. She looked straight
at their own villa, half-way up the side of the mountain. The most
familiar view seen framed through glass has a certain unfamiliar
distinction, and she grew calm as she gazed. Then she remembered that
she was in the presence of some one she did not know well, and she
turned and looked at Mrs. Flushing. Mrs. Flushing was still sitting
on the edge of the bed, looking up, with her lips parted, so that her
strong white teeth showed in two rows.