WHITEWASH
"We were just talking of you." Victoria's expression was composite.
"Speaking of angels," Mrs. Durham added, rising to greet their visitor.
Philippa entered, more gorgeous than ever, rustling aggressively in her silk petticoats. Her light tan cloth gown, with its cleverly combined touches of gold and brown, set off her blonde prettiness to perfection. She felt a glow of pleasure as she noted Victoria's dishevelled appearance, and the bespattered apron that concealed Mrs. Durham's graceful figure. She regarded her friend with a new and cruel interest, bred of the last-night confidences. It was delightful to feel that she held this girl's reputation in the hollow of her hand—this girl who had let her read scorn of her, Philippa's, life and character—the girl whose appearance had forced her to hedge and definitely engage herself when she had other more interesting occupations. Truly, it was a sweet morsel. Her musings gave her an expression, half-sweet, half-sinister, and added a new tone of superiority to her voice. Victoria
