over the piano toward them, she pinched herself to get rid of the
feeling that, when all these were out of sight of each other, they would
become silent and have on their lips a little, bitter smile. Would it be
like that up in their bedrooms, or would it only be on her (Nedda's) own
lips that this little smile would come? It was a question she could
not answer; nor could she very well ask it of any of these ladies. She
looked them over as they sat there talking and felt very lonely. And
suddenly her eyes fell on her grandmother. Frances Freeland was seated
halfway down the long room in a sandalwood chair, somewhat insulated by
a surrounding sea of polished floor. She sat with a smile on her lips,
quite still, save for the continual movement of her white hands on her
black lap. To her gray hair some lace of Chantilly was pinned with a
little diamond brooch, and hung behind her delicate but rather long
ears. And from her shoulders was depended a silvery garment, of stuff
that looked like the mail shirt of a fairy, reaching the ground on
either side. A tacit agreement had evidently been come to, that she was
incapable of discussing 'the Land' or those other subjects such as the
French murder, the Russian opera, the Chinese pictures, and the doings
of one, L---- , whose fate was just then in the air, so that she sat
alone.

And Nedda thought: 'How much more of a lady she looks than anybody here!
There's something deep in her to rest on that isn't in the Bigwigs;
perhaps it's because she's of a different generation.' And, getting up,
she went over and sat down beside her on a little chair.

Frances Freeland rose at once and said:

"Now, my darling, you can't be comfortable in that tiny chair. You must
take mine."