THE RETURN
towards the window, where the last day-light leaked in faintly through draperies of parchment-coloured lace. Why was Mrs. Tottenham so agitated, tugging her hat off and patting at her crimped and faded hair?
She bent to a level with the mirror; haggard-eyed and grinning with anxiety, she searched her bleached and baggy face to find what prettiness was there. Lydia watched her with apathetic curiosity from where, on her knees beside the sofa, she unwrapped the shoes and bottles from their little holland bags.
"Have you seen the photo," asked Mrs. Tottenham suddenly, "of me when I was twenty-five? On the chiffonier—the plush-framed one—you must know it!"
Lydia assented.
"It's a good one, isn't it? D'you think it's like me—now, I mean?"
"Quite a likeness, really, considering."
"Considering?" (How sharp her voice was!)
"Oh, change of fashions makes a difference, doesn't it, and, well . . . time, of course."
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