She laughed, and I laughed with her. But she did not say whether or not she was disappointed in my appearance or relieved.
“Poor Maxim,” she said: “he went through a ghastly time, and let’s hope you have made him forget about it. Of course he adores Manderley.”
Part of me wanted her to continue her train of thought, to tell me more of the past, naturally and easily like this, and something else, way back in my mind, did not want to know, did not want to hear.
“We are not a bit alike, you know,” she said, “our characters are poles apart. I show everything on my face: whether I like people or not, whether I am angry or pleased. There’s no reserve about me. Maxim is entirely different. Very quiet, very reserved. You never know what’s going on in that funny mind of his. I lose my temper on the slightest provocation, flare up, and then it’s all over. Maxim loses his temper once or twice in a year, and when he does—my God—he does lose it. I don’t suppose he ever will with you, I should think you are a placid little thing.”
She smiled, and pinched my arm, and I thought about being placid, how quiet and comfortable it sounded, someone with knitting on her lap, with calm unruffled brow. Someone who was never anxious, never tortured by doubt and indecision, someone who never stood as I did, hopeful, eager, frightened, tearing at bitten nails, uncertain which way to go, what star to follow.
“You won’t mind me saying so, will you?” she went on, “but I think you ought to do something to your hair. Why don’t you have it waved? It’s so very lanky, isn’t it, like that? Must look awful under a hat. Why don’t you sweep it back behind your ears?”
I did so obediently, and waited for her approval. She looked at me critically, her head on one side. “No,” she said. “No, I think that’s worse. It’s too severe, and doesn’t suit you. No, all you need is a wave, just to pinch it up. I never have cared for that Joan of Arc business or whatever they call it. What does Maxim say? Does he think it suits you?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “he’s never mentioned it.”
“Oh well,” she said, “perhaps he likes it. Don’t go by me. Tell me, did you get any clothes in London or Paris?”
“No,” I said, “we had no time. Maxim was anxious to get home. And I can always send for catalogues.”
“I can tell by the way you dress that you don’t care a hoot what you wear,” she said. I glanced at my flannel skirt apologetically.
“I do,” I said. “I’m very fond of nice things. I’ve never had much money to spend on clothes up to now.”
“I wonder Maxim did not stay a week or so in London and get you something decent to wear,” she said. “I must say, I think it’s rather selfish of him. So unlike him too. He’s generally so particular.”
“Is he?” I said; “he’s never seemed particular to me. I don’t think he notices what I wear at all. I don’t think he minds.”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, well, he must have changed then.”
She looked away from me, and whistled to Jasper, her hands in her pockets, and then stared up at the house above us.
“You’re not using the west wing then,” she said.
“No,” I said. “No, we have the suite in the east wing. It’s all been done up.”
“Has it?” she said. “I didn’t know that. I wonder why.”
“It was Maxim’s idea,” I said, “he seems to prefer it.”
She said nothing, she went on looking at the windows, and whistling. “How do you get on with Mrs. Danvers?” she said suddenly.
I bent down, and began patting Jasper’s head, and stroking his ears. “I have not seen very much of her,” I said; “she scares me a little. I’ve never seen anyone quite like her before.”
“I don’t suppose you have,” said Beatrice.
Jasper looked up at me with great eyes, humble, rather self-conscious. I kissed the top of his silken head, and put my hand over his black nose.
“There’s no need to be frightened of her,” said Beatrice; “and don’t let her see it, whatever you do. Of course I’ve never had anything to do with her, and I don’t think I ever want to either. However, she’s always been very civil to me.”
I went on patting Jasper’s head.
“Did she seem friendly?” said Beatrice.
“No,” I said. “No, not very.”