“Anything happened?” repeated Miss Ingate. “What you mean? I don’t see anything vehy particular on the posters.”
“Everybody looks so sad and worried, compared with people in Paris.”
“So they do! So they do!” cried Miss Ingate. “Oh, yes! So they do! I wondered what it was seemed so queer. That’s it. Well, of course you mustn’t forget we’re in England. I always did say it was a vehy peculiar place.”
“Do we look like that?” Audrey suggested.
“I expect we do.”
“I’m quite sure that I don’t, Winnie, anyway. I’m really very cheerful. I’m surprisingly cheerful.”
It was true. Also she both looked and felt more girlish than ever in Paris. Impossible to divine, watching her in her light clothes, and with her airy step, that she was the relict of a man who had so tragically died of blood-poisoning caused by bad table manners.
“I’ve a good mind to ask a policeman,” said she.
“You’d better not,” Miss Ingate warned her.
Audrey instantly turned into the roadway, treating the creosoted wood as though it had been rose-strewn velvet, and reached a refuge where a policeman was standing. The policeman bent with benevolence and politeness to listen to her tale.