Mrs. Everill." Some one in a corner gave a little suppressed laugh,
Lucy looked.

She saw a thin, dark woman with charming irregular features and a figure
which looked as if it had been put into her black velvet dress with a
shoehorn, and she heard her say in a low voice which somehow seemed to
creep inside shut parts of you, "Tony and I are very old friends." They
were coming straight to her and then, next thing she knew was that voice
again, saying, "Mrs. Everill, you must forgive me if I say that, for the
moment, you are to me, just Tony's wife. But, of course, I know that to
be that you must be a great many other things besides."

Lucy knew that every one was looking at them, not at her, Lucy, the
bride (and she had been so proud and happy--childishly happy--to be a
bride), not at Tony, not even at Lady Dynevor, but at _them_, at the
situation. It seemed to Lucy so indecent, so vulgar.

"You will love Lucy, Vivian," Tony said quietly, and Lucy looked up at
the charming, gracious apparition so dominant, with her beautifully
friendly manner. Her eyes looked as if she could never find the bottom,
as if tears were just going to well up and drown them.

"Of course I shall," she said, and there was a little edge on her voice,
as if it were going to break. That was the feeling she gave you, Lucy
thought, of being on the brink of something, a tenseness like the moment
when the conductor's baton is raised before you have been released by
the music.

"How ill you look," Tony was saying. Vivian laughed,