Anna Wolsky was never really happy, she did not feel more than half
alive, when away from the green cloth. She had only left Monte Carlo
when the heat began to make the place unbearable to one of her northern
temperament, and she was soon moving on to one of the French
watering-places, where gambling of sorts can be indulged in all
the summer through.
Different in looks, in temperament, and in tastes were the two young
widows, and this, perhaps, was why they got on so excellently well
together.
Sylvia Bailey was the foreign ideal of a beautiful Englishwoman. Her hair
was fair, and curled naturally. Her eyes were of that blue which looks
violet in the sunlight; and she had a delicate, rose leaf complexion.
Married when only nineteen to a man much older than herself, she was now
at twenty-five a widow, and one without any intimate duties or close ties
to fill her existence. Though she had mourned George Bailey sincerely,
she had soon recovered all her normal interest and pleasure in life.
Mrs. Bailey was fond of dress and able to indulge her taste; but, even
so, good feeling and the standard of propriety of the English country
town of Market Dalling where she had spent most of her life, perhaps
also a subtle instinct that nothing else would ever suit her so well,
made her remain rigidly faithful to white and black, pale grey, and
lavender.
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