nd distance and fatigue, were an expression of it. In her latter mood
Judith chose savagely to despise Celia for her defection from her
lover; at the same time she lent small ear to love-proffers, absorbed
in a different passion. For the hatred of Celia, who did not think of
her once a week, was grown to a passion.

It was at this time hardly a matter of resolve that Celia did not
think of Judith, unless some vision obtruded itself of her, driving
past with Jess, whose little sallow face--owing its effect of
malignity perhaps to a defect of the eyes, of which one never could
quite ascertain the nature--was so well fitted to set off the proud
bloom of hers. A strain of magnificence had developed in her: she was
perpetually organizing festivities, picnics, water-parties,
lawn-parties: her garden could be seen a mile away at night,
festooned with Chinese lanterns, while the village band played among
the trees, and the contingent of the village people which she had
formed into "her set" ate ices on her verandah. Effluvia of these
doings drifted necessarily to the Comptons.

But in time Celia began finding herself subjected to small occasional
pin-pricks of annoyance at things reported to her as having been said
by Judith. They were repeated without malicious intention, mostly as
being funny. The village dressmaker, who sometimes sewed for Celia,
was employed as well by Judith. It might almost have been supposed
part of this woman's business to tell the village news while, as was
the custom, one sat and sewed with her. Celia expected it as much as
that she should bring her thimble and wax. Miss Greene was one of her
oldest village associations, a "character" she was called, and was a
privileged and much-quoted person. She felt a whole-souled allegiance
to the Comptons, but no less to the new-comer, Judith Bray, who had
been lavish to her as to everybody. She "did not know as the one
interfered with the other." When she liked a person, the bent of her
disposition was to tell her everything, but particularly whatever in
the most distant way had reference to her.

She said to Celia one day, without ceasing to push her gathering
needle, "You know who Judy Bray thinks you like?... in looks?... Well,
you never would guess it! Not 'cause there ain't nothin' in it, though
... for after you've been told, you'll see it at once. She says she
can never see Beech--Beechnut, your dog, you know--without it makes
her think of you."

Ce