Rolling Stone by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online Page B

I should care about it.”
    Pearla actually looked at her, eyes wide, lips parted.
    â€œBut they are my best colours,” she said with wistful surprise. “Everyone thinks so.” She turned appealingly to Terry. “I hardly ever wear anything else.”
    Terry’s eyes had a sparkle in them.
    â€œI don’t think Mrs. Cresswell was bothering about that. You meant, didn’t you, darling, that you didn’t feel frightfully keen on turning your drawing-room into a studio?”
    But the courage had run out of Emily. She said, “Oh, I don’t know,” and was glad when the door opened and the coffee came in.
    Norah Margesson took her cup to the glass door that opened upon the terrace. She jerked the curtain back and stood there looking out. Emily, though sorry for her, was annoyed. In her young days a girl didn’t show so openly that she was waiting for the men to come in. The continual restless shimmer of the blue sequins hinted at the fact that Miss Margesson was not waiting very patiently. And really it wasn’t any use. Emily was quite sure that Joe Applegarth hadn’t any intentions at all.
    The men came in quite soon—much sooner than usual. Emily thought, “James can’t stay away from her,” and then was horrified, because this was just what she had been refusing to admit, even to herself. Pearla was going to meet him now. He was taking her off to the end of the room, pretending to talk to her about the Lely which hung there, a picture she didn’t really like to have in her drawing-room—one of those brazen Charles II women with about forty yards of pale satin slipping off her everywhere and showing a great deal more than was decent. Emily’s conscience pricked her suddenly and hard. “Oh, I’m wicked! How do I know they’re not talking about the picture? It cost enough.”
    Actually, they had begun by talking about the picture, because Pearla looked up at it and said in a sighing voice,
    â€œOh, how lovely her pearls are!”
    â€œThey ought to be,” said James Cresswell, “seeing that King Charles gave them to her.”
    Pearla said “Oh!” as if he had shocked her. And then, “I wonder what happened to them. You know, I can’t help having a very special feeling about pearls because of my name. And I haven’t got any—”
    He looked at her bare exquisite neck, and then they both looked across at Emily.
    â€œYour wife’s pearls are lovely,” said Pearla, only just above her breath.
    James said, “Pretty fair.” His sharp glance dwelt on them, appraising them. Emily couldn’t set them off, never had been able to set them off. He had given them to her when the boy was born. His mind winced away from that. A sickly child that had lived no more than half a year—that was the best she could do. And no second child. The Cresswells had never run to big families, but they had been healthy enough. He felt the old resentment as he turned to meet Pearla’s wistful gaze.
    Joseph Applegarth had joined Norah Margesson. He was a kindly man, and he thought she looked lonely over there by herself, but no man of his age and figure wants to stand about and talk after a good dinner. He liked his rubber, and if the bridge tables were not brought out soon, he would take it on himself to give James a jog. Good thing too, if it stopped him making a fool of himself with that Mrs. Yorke. Very pretty woman of course, but not the thing—no, no, decidedly not the thing, in his own house and right under poor Emily’s nose.
    Norah Margesson pulled the linen curtain between them and the room.
    â€œThere ought to be a moon,” she said. “Isn’t it the Hunter’s moon in October? It ought to be rising about now. You can’t see it from here. Let’s go to the end of the terrace and look. It’s quite warm tonight.” She turned the key as she spoke and