MRS. WINDERMERE
"What you are seeking," said Mrs. Windermere firmly, "is a lover." She took her fork up, speared the éclair, and watched the cream ooze forth slowly with a smile of sensual contentment. She had been saying things like this repeatedly, all the time they were in Italy. But they didn't, somehow, sound quite nice in Fullers'. Esmée thought she saw a woman near them looking up.
"I don't think I am, you know," she argued gently, wondering at what date Mrs.Windermere had arranged to come and stay with them.
"Oh, child, child. . . . You can't, you know, there's been too much between us. And the Mother-heart knows, you know; the yearning in it brings about a vision. I see you treading strange, dim places; stumbling, crying out, trying to turn back, but always following—the Light." Mrs. Windermere laid down her fork and licked the cream from her lips. "And then," she said slowly, "I see the Light die out—extinguished."
There was a pause. "Thank you very much," said Esmée earnestly; "it—it saves a lot to know beforehand. I mean if the Light
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