Heads You Lose Read Online Free

the same way as I adore him, darling; and. not in the way James adores you. I suppose you wouldn’t understand, not having been in love yourself but only having had people in love with you, how dreadful it is to sort of ache with love for anybody who just comfortably loves you back. Before I was married, such a lot of people ached about me; it was just my luck to pick on the one that only loved me coolly and kindly and affectionately… People all thought Henry was terribly lucky to marry me, I know they did, just because he was a Jew and not very good-looking and not as up in society as some of the others… but if they only knew, it was me that was the lucky one; because I wanted Henry so terribly much more than he wanted me. And after six months of marriage, things haven’t changed very much. If I were you, Fran, I should marry Pen or James; don’t wait for someone you’re violently in love with yourself. I assure you it’s far more comfortable to be loved than to be in love.”
    Fran scratched her head, Laurel-fashion, and repeated her little grimace. “Well, I suppose it’ll work itself out; anyway, I’d better wait till I’m asked! It’s funny, though, when you think that we used to look upon Pen as an uncle, when we were little girls.”
    “Not so funny for Pen,” said Venetia seriously.
    Pendock did not think so either. Walking across the lawn at Miss Morland’s side, he was deep in thought, cursing those crinkly grey hairs on either side of his handsome head. “Fran must be twenty-four or five,” he thought, “and I’m exactly twice her age. Why does she get lovelier every time she comes to Pigeonsford? She used to be a little leggy dark-haired colt of a creature, and goodness knows I thought I loved her then; but now she’s a woman, for all her childishness… I can’t keep it back any longer. I shall have to speak to Lady Hart…”
    He became conscious that his companion was talking, talking rapidly and rather hysterically, pouring forth the flood of her angry jealousy: “… so, really, Mr. Pendock, you must forgive me for being so abrupt with one of your guests, but to see her posturing and preening herself in that dreadful little hat and with all that paint on her face, well, really, when I was her age—and no doubt that’s a very long time ago—I was taught to believe that only women of loose morals behaved like that. Of course we poor village people can’t be expected to keep up with all the smart London set and their ways, but really—well, now, honestly, in your heart, Mr. Pendock, what would you think of me if I were to behave in such a way?”
    The thought of Grace Morland moving among them as Francesca had done, laughing and blushing and showing off that dear little, funny little hat, was so grotesque that Pendock could only laugh. He did not know that she was jealous, only that she was absurd. He stood with his hand on the gatepost, looking at her and laughing, and all his heart was warm with the thought of Fran. Grace, listening to his laughter, shivering from the tender, far-away look in his eyes, screamed at him suddenly, all her defences down: “You would say that I was what she is; you would say that I was no better than a—no better than a—nothing but a tart !”
    She burst open the door of her house and ran, weeping, up to her room.
    Fran, first of the women to come down to dinner that evening, paused for a moment at the door of the drawing-room. James Nicholl stood with his back to the tall Adam mantelpiece, a cocktail-glass in his hand, looking as usual more than half asleep. He roused himself sufficiently to say as she came across the room towards him: “You look like an orchid, Fran; one of those big Catelyas. I don’t know how you contrive to be so full of colour when you’re wearing a plain grey dress.”
    James made her nervous, lately. She did not know whether or not to take him seriously, and now she said lightly: “Thank you, my pet. It’s not often we