Of what should he suspect me? I am sure I looked nothing but what I was, a superior lady's-maid, well turned out in all-black; rather pale from my last night's vigil, and genuinely anxious because I could not find out what had become of my mistress.
"Want to know a lot, some of you," said the waiter, quite unpleasantly this time.
And he turned away. He left me, feeling snubbed to about six inches shorter, standing, hesitating, on the red carpet of the corridor.
Horrid man!
The attendant came up.
"Miss! About that young lady of yours," he began, in a low, confidential voice.
"Oh, yes? Yes? You remember her now? You'll tell me who she went away with?" I said quite desperately. "Do tell me!"
"Well, I couldn't say for certain, of course; but—since Alfred there was telling you she was talking a lot with that young Lord Fourcastles, well! I see him go off in the small car, and there was a lady with him," the attendant told me. "That I did see. A young lady in some sort of a wrap——"
"Yes, but what sort of a wrap?" I cried impatiently.
Oh, the incomprehensible blindness of the Masculine Eye! Woman dresses to please it. She spends the third of her means, the half of her time, and the whole of her thought on that object alone. And what is her reward? Man—whether he's the restaurant attendant or the creature who's taken her out to dinner—merely announces: "I really couldn't say what sort of a wrap she had on."