Green Darkness by Anya Seton

delicate hand rested on a greyhound’s head, and whose haunting melancholy eyes always seemed to follow the beholder. There was a slight resemblance to Richard in this portrait which always had made Celia vaguely uneasy, even though it was proof of the long established lineage which thrilled her.
    The Bent-Warners who had expanded the house party were an ebullient young couple in their thirties. Pamela was a blonde, so pretty that one forgave her constant chatter about either her children or the theatre. Robin Bent-Warner sat on Celia’s right, and was most amusing. He looked and acted rather like a P. G. Wodehouse character, and capitalized on this. “My job being tourism, ‘Come to Britain and enjoy our quaintness’ you know. I don’t quite sport a monocle, but I hope that’s the general effect.”
    Celia laughed. The laugh was high-pitched and shrill. Lily, across the table, scrutinized her daughter anxiously. What had come over the girl? Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittered like those extraordinary crystal hunks she wore on her ears and wrist. The tangerine dress clung to her very small breasts as it never had before. Or, could it be the way Celia was holding herself? Arched backwards, almost flaunting. And while she laughed at Robin Bent-Warner, surely her bare shoulder was pressing against Harry’s maroon-covered shoulder, for he looked startled and pleased. Lily put down a forkful of crab ravigote and pushed her plate back. Celia could not be tight, she had taken no cocktails, nor yet even tasted her wine. Then she was coming down with something. Flu made people act unnatural. Some virus, Lily thought, would of course explain the fainting and this change in her. Right after dinner we’ll see if she has a temperature.
    Other people were also watching Celia. One was her husband. Richard made no pretense of listening to either Pam’s chatter or Myra’s husky blandishments until the latter flicked his cheek with her finger, saying, “
Must
you glower, my lad? It’s so tiresome. I’ve seen a side of you this weekend I never suspected.”
    Richard turned to her slowly and smiled, not with his eyes. “Men are perhaps more complicated than you quite realize, dear Myra.” He raised his glass in a mocking toast.
    She laughed. “Well, Harry isn’t complicated anyway. He’s just plain susceptible. I might be glowering a bit myself, seeing that he’s now giving that heavy-lidded bedroom look to your Celia, but actually, I think it’s funny.” And she did. She had all the assurance of beauty, position and experience. An unexpected move in the eternal game was zestful. Imagine that quiet little mouse of a Celia suddenly acting sexy, and looking it, too, Myra thought with critical interest. As though somebody had pressed a switch and a light bulb flared on. That this phenomenon was designed to pique the mysterious Richard, Myra had no doubt, since she was an adept at that ploy herself. And that the ploy seemed to be succeeding, Myra thought admirable. She shrugged mentally, retiring for the moment from the lists. She would deal with Harry later.
    She also abandoned Richard and addressed Akananda on her left. “Tell me about India, Doctor,” she commanded. “My grandfather was stationed there, governing something or other, but I’ve never been east of Istanbul. Would I like India?”
    Akananda, who had been gravely eating, responded with smiling courtesy. The other close watcher of Celia was Edna Simpson. Edna, thanks to the tincture, had slept heavily all afternoon, not even awakening at the housemaid’s knock when tea was brought up. During the nap she had suffered a recurrent nightmare. Every time that she roused a little and angrily heard herself moaning she slipped back again into the same high-vaulted room. Her host and hostess were in the nightmare though they did not look like themselves. Sir Richard had no face, but he had a fat long black snake twisted around his waist. The snake kept hissing