fine India muslin which Kate had bought in India, and did not know what to do with. It was a sort of yellow-peach colour, beautiful, but it did not suit Kate. Teresa was fingering the gold-thread selvedge.
“It is not organdie?” she said.
“No, muslin. Hand-made muslin from India.—Why don’t you take it. It doesn’t suit me. It would be perfect for you.”
She rose and held the fabric against Teresa’s dark neck, pointing to the mirror. Teresa saw the warm-yellow muslin upon herself, and her eyes flashed.
“No!” she said. “I couldn’t take it.”
“Why not? It doesn’t suit me. I’ve had it lying about for a year now, and was wondering whether to cut it up for curtains. Do have it.”
Kate could be imperious, almost cruel in her giving.
“I can’t take it from you!”
“Of course you can!”
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