THE BETTER SORT
"Perhaps you have," Mrs. Dyott placidly suggested—"reading so many."
Her companion made a motion of feigned despair. "Ah, you take away my courage for going to my room, as I was just meaning to, for another."
"Another French one?"
"I'm afraid."
"Do you carry them by the dozen———"
"Into innocent British homes?" Maud tried to remember. "I believe I brought three—seeing them in a shop window as I passed through town. It never rains but it pours! But I've already read two."
"And are they the only ones you do read?"
"French ones?" Maud considered. "Oh, no. D'Annunzio."
"And what's that?" Mrs. Dyott asked as she affixed a stamp.
"Oh, you dear thing!" Her friend was amused, yet almost showed pity. "I know you don't read," Maud went on; "but why should you? You live!"
"Yes—wretchedly enough," Mrs. Dyott returned, getting her letters together. She left her place, holding them as a neat, achieved handful, and came over to the fire, while Mrs. Blessingbourne turned once more to the window, where she was met by another flurry.
Maud spoke then as if moved only by the elements. "Do you expect him through all this?"
Mrs. Dyott just waited, and it had the effect, indescribably, of making everything that had gone before seem to have led up to the question. This effect was even deepened by the way she then said, "Whom do you mean?"
"Why, I thought you mentioned at luncheon that Colonel Voyt was to walk over. Surely he can't."
"Do you care very much?" Mrs. Dyott asked.
Her friend now hesitated. "It depends on what you call 'much'. If you mean should I like to see him—then certainly."
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