"Don't cry, you old dear! Forgive me. But now tell me—absolutely—just what you've been up to. Don't mind Marie. She is French. She can always hold her tongue."
"Well, I've been talking with him, that's all. I'm sure he is the Prince. No ordinary male could be as sweet and agreeable and sunny as—"
"Stop!" cried Miss Guile, with a pretty moue, putting the tips of her fingers to her ears after putting the piece of toast into her mouth. "One would think you were a sentimental old maid instead of a cold-blooded, experienced, man-hating married woman."
"You forget that I am a widow, my dear. Besides, it is disgusting for one to speak with one's mouth full of buttered toast. It—"
"Oh, how I used to loathe you when you kept forever ding-donging at me about the way I ate when I was almost starving. Were you never a hungry little kid? Did you never lick jam and honey off your fingers and—"
"Many and many a time," confessed Mrs. Gaston, beaming once more and laying a gentle, loving hand on the girl's shoulder. Miss Guile dropped her head over until her cheek rested on the caressing hand, and munched toast with blissful abandon.
"Now tell me what you've been up to," she said, and Mrs. Gaston repeated every word of the conversation she had had with R. Schmidt, proving absolutely nothing but stoutly maintaining that her intuition was completely to be depended upon.
"And, oh," she whispered in conclusion, "wouldn't it be perfectly wonderful if you two should fall in love with each other—"
"Don't be silly!"
"But you have said that if he should fall in love with you for yourself and not because—"