She gave him a sudden smile.
"That's hitting low. We used to quarrel"
"Shall we resume it?"
Her open eyes, shrewdly and widely alive to him, turned a sudden slanting glance on Cherry.
"And he has read one of my books. A rather beastly book!"
"O, come now, you two," and Roland's hand was on Kit's arm, "don't resume it here—please. And I'm hungry."
Sitting opposite to Molly Pentreath and looking at her across the clothless, polished table, Christopher felt a curious confusion in the midst of which his consciousness of her strove like a blurred light. It was she who confused him. He could not say quite why or how, save that there seemed to be something peculiar and unique about her, a sureness that was challenging. He remembered that she was a celebrity, and yet she struck him as being supremely natural and fiercely unaffected, Molly of the mallet, and yet a far more mysterious Molly. That was it; she had mystery, at least for him. She was unexpected. He felt that he had no more understanding of the woman behind those fearless and level brown eyes than he had of the mystery of life. The whole of her was disturbing, her glances, her movements, the unforeseen and unforeseeable flashes of her temperament. He was aware of a personal crudeness in the setting up his consciousness against hers. He felt that if he spoke he would say things that would sound platitudinous and Gulliverish, and that she would look right through them and him. Yes, she was brilliant, and her brilliance troubled him. It hurt.
They had arrived at the fish before Kit uttered a sound, and that was in answer to a question of hers.
"I hear you spent a week-end with Maurice."
"Yes."
Nothing came but that single, silly word, and he pushed himself to amplify it.
"I liked his house. We played golf croquet."
"And Perdita?"
"No. Only old Maurice and I."
"I suppose you beat him."
"I think I did."
