She said: “I am Noel’s wife. I have been wanting to talk to you for some
time.” She sat in the armchair beside my desk.
Light from the wall lamp opposite, fell across her. She was a rather
tall woman—with a figure that might have been good, had she chosen her
clothes carefully. She wore the sort of good, country tweeds that women
select for practicality, for durability, without reference to the
nuances of style.
Under her tan felt sports’ hat, golden hair outcropped, with an effect
of untidiness, that might, once, have been an effect of splendour. Over
the left side of her face—a black patch concealed what lay beneath,
from hat-brim to chin. The right side of her face was composed of a
large eye, of violet-blue, a graceful brown eyebrow, clear white skin
and half a mouth that once, obviously, the men who knew her said was
“rosebud.”
Well, I should have known that Noel’s taste was all right. War bride
married-in-haste, she might have been—she must have been composite of
cream and roses then.
She said: “I feel this is an intrusion and that I should apologize.
Something has happened that makes it necessary.”
Yes, it was a well-bred voice. Curiously unformed, though, like the
voice of a very young girl.
“That’s quite all right. I have so much admiration for Noel that I’m
delighted to meet his wife.”
(Being civilized means that one keeps one’s words unrelated to one’s
thoughts, when necessary.)
She said: “It will be easier for me—I am not used to talking to
people—if you will let me say what I have to say—first.”