CHAPTER FIVEMrs. Angus Vansittart was humming to herself very untunefully a little melody as she smeared her face with cream.
The mirrors showed her hair too stiffly waved, the roots having a darkness that repeated applications of brightening dyes could not completely eradicate.
They showed a flabby skin that no amount of cosmetics could entirely conceal.
They showed a weak and sensuous mouth, which, even as it hummed away, greedily demanded more of life than it was ever likely to obtain.
Mrs. Vansittart’s maid hovered by the safe, waiting for her mistress to finish spreading powder heavily over her chin and throat, before she asked,
“Will you wear the emeralds or your pearls tonight, madame?”
Mrs. Vansittart considered this momentous question with becoming gravity.
“The emeralds, n
