I do not know how I received the impression
that she hated Mrs. Vanderbridge--never once had she glanced in her
direction--yet I was aware from the moment of her entrance, that she was
bristling with animosity, though animosity is too strong a word for the
resentful spite, like the jealous rage of a spoiled child, which gleamed
now and then in her eyes. I couldn't think of her as wicked any more
than I could think of a bad child as wicked. She was merely wilful and
undisciplined and--I hardly know how to convey what I mean--elfish.
After her entrance the dinner dragged on heavily. Mrs. Vanderbridge
still kept up her nervous chatter, but nobody listened, for I was too
embarrassed to pay any attention to what she said, and Mr. Vanderbridge
had never recovered from his abstraction. He was like a man in a dream,
not observing a thing that happened before him, while the strange woman
sat there in the candlelight with her curious look of vagueness and
unreality. To my astonishment not even the servants appeared to notice
her, and though she had unfolded her napkin when she sat down, she
wasn't served with either the roast or the salad. Once or twice,
particularly when a course was served, I glanced at Mrs. Vanderbridge to
see if she would rectify the mistake, but she kept her gaze fixed on her
plate.
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