Shouts of laughter had often greeted her, and the first time
she had for a moment doubted her prowess was on an occasion when
she had caught a glimpse of Coombe who stared at her with an
expression which she would--just for one second--have felt might
be horror, if she had not been so sure it couldn't be, and must of
course be something else--one of the things nobody ever understood
in him.
By the time the softly swathing veils of vaporous darkness were
withdrawn, and the tight rope assuring everyone of its permanent
security became a trusted support, Feather at her crowded little
parties and at other people's bigger ones did not remain wholly
unaware of the probability that even people who rather liked
her made, among themselves, more or less witty comments upon her
improved fortunes. They were improved greatly. Bills were paid,
trades-people were polite, servants were respectful; she had no
need to invent excuses and lies. She and Robert had always kept out
of the way of stodgy, critical people, so they had been intimate
with none of the punctilious who might have withdrawn themselves
from a condition of things they chose to disapprove: accordingly,
she found no gaps in her circle. Those who had formed the habit of
amusing themselves at her house were as ready as before to amuse
themselves again.
The fact remained, however,--curiously, perhaps, in connection with
the usual slightness of all impressions made on her--that there
was a memory which never wholly left her.
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