MRS. WINDERMERE
its air of modest expensiveness. "Simply twirling? How"—with an obvious connection of ideas—"is your husband?"
"Very well indeed. He would like so much———" Esmée could not picture Wilfred meeting Mrs. Windermere. "He would have liked to have come up with me to-day," she concluded.
"Ye-es," said the other, looking beyond at something. "How did he ever come to let you go to Italy—alone?"
"I wasn't alone, though, was I? I was with Aunt Emma. Someone had to take her and I'd never travelled."
"Spiritually, you were alone. You were alert, a-tiptoe, breathlessly expectant. I came—but it might not have been I! How did he come to let you go like that? Men of his type are not so generous."
"But he isn't that type."
The waitress brought the cup of chocolate, the éclair and the rissoles. Mrs. Windermere stretched out across the dishes, gently disengaged the fork from Esmée's fingers, and turned her hand palm upwards on the table.
"That little hand told me everything,"
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