cally, 'I've the very sweetest thing you've ever seen.'
'Oh,' said Berengaria, not much interested, 'I never wear them now.'
'In pink,' I said, ignoring her remark, 'a glorious, delicious rose-pink.'
'Rose-pink,' said Berengaria, growing interested in spite of herself. 'It's my favourite colour.'
That was good. I grew more enthusiastic.
'Rose-pink,' I repeated thoughtfully and mendaciously. 'Yes, of course it's just your colour.'
Berengaria looked pleased because, of course, rose-pink is not her colour. Why is it that we all of us long to be told the things that we would like to be true about ourselves, but which we secretly know full well are not?
'All in silk,' I went on, 'with the most delicious ruching all round, and dear little bits of cream lace insertion round the bottom, and lined with the softest and most delicate pink flannel you ever saw.'
If anybody's mouth ever did such a horrid thing as 'water' Berengaria's did then.
'Perhaps I did wrong to abuse dressing-gowns to you as I did,' she said regretfully, watching the tonga disappear round the side of the bungalow, 'but I always make a point of abusing the things I haven't got. It makes one feel so much more comfortable and contented with what one has.'
Berengaria paused. But I knew that confidences were coming, and that my time, though near, was not yet.
