Lady Brigit Mead was sitting on the hummocky sparse grass under an
ancient olive-tree, looking seawards. She wore a blue frock without any
collar, and her face and long, round neck were very sunburnt. Her face
had hardened in the last four months, and there was a tense look about
her upper lip, yet an artist would have preferred her face as it now was
to what it was before she had become engaged. For now the nervous strain
she was living under had told on her more material beauties, leaving
more room for expression, as it seemed, to the others.
It was not that her face was better, but the suffering in it was less
petty than the resentment that had formerly stamped it.
The dominant characteristic in it had hitherto been disdainful bearing
of small annoyances; now it showed a grim endurance of a great
suffering.
"Bicky, dear," Pam asked suddenly, coming up unheard, "what is it?"