MRS. WINDERMERE
"And you," said Mrs. Windermere, bringing her suddenly into focus. "What is going to happen to You? I must come down and have a look at this husband of yours, this Wilfred. Let me see———"
She dived suddenly, her bag was on the floor. She reappeared with it, and its mauve satin maw gaped at Esmée while she fumbled in its depths. Out came a small suède note-book, and Mrs. Windermere, feverishly nibbling the point of the pencil, ran her eye down the pages.
"The twentieth?" she said. "I could come then if you could have me. If not, the fourteenth of the next, for the week-end—but if I came on the twentieth I could stay longer. Failing the fourteenth———"
Esmée pondered, lowering her lashes. "I'm afraid, I'm awfully afraid it will have to be the fourteenth of next. All this month there'll be Wilfred's relations."
"Little caged thing," said Mrs. Windermere tenderly. "Very well, the fourteenth." She jotted down something in her note-book, looked across at Esmée, smiled, and jotted down some more, still with her head
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