III
At the Glengowrie Court Hotel, South Kensington, breakfast was over. In the lounge, Miss
Sainsbury Seale was sitting talking to Mrs. Bolitho. They occupied adjacent tables in the dining
room and had made friends the day after Miss Sainsbury Seale’s arrival a week ago.
Miss Sainsbury Seale said:
“You know, dear, it really has stopped aching! Not a twinge! I think perhaps I’ll ring up—”
Mrs. Bolitho interrupted her.
“Now don’t be foolish, my dear. You go to the dentist and get it over.”
Mrs. Bolitho was a tall, commanding female with a deep voice. Miss Sainsbury Seale was a
woman of forty odd with indecisively bleached¹ hair rolled up in untidy curls. Her clothes were
shapeless and rather artistic², and her pince-nez were always dropping off. She was a great talker.
She said now wistfully:
“But really, you know, it doesn’t ache at all.”
“Nonsense, you told me you hardly slept a wink³ last night.”
“No, I didn’t—no, indeed—but perhaps, now, the nerve has actually died.”
“All the more reason to go to the dentist,” said Mrs. Bolitho firmly. “We all like to put it off, but
that’s just cowardice⁴. Better make up one’s mind and get it over!”
Something hovered⁵ on Miss Sainsbury Seale’s lips. Was it the rebellious⁶ murmur⁷ of: “Yes, but
it’s not your tooth!”
All she actually said, however, was:
“I expect you’re right. And Mr. Morley is such a careful man and really never hurts one at all.”
下一页  尾页