When she came to the first pillar box and applied her letter to its yawning mouth, she paused suddenly, assailed by one of those subtle feminine presentiments which her long residence in the Orient had not taught her to despise. She withdrew the letter and walked on, smiling, but disturbed. She even passed two more boxes, but at the fourth shot the letter in. Her planets had long since made a fatalist of her, more or less. And she had adventurous blood.
She found Mrs. Winstone risen, groomed, coifed, with even her smile on, and seated before her desk in the front ell of the drawing-room, answering notes and cards of invitation.
“Ah, Julia!” she said casually, as she rose and offered her cheek. “Home again? How nice. But that coat and skirt, my dear! Quite old style.”
“Rather!” said Julia, making herself comfortable. “I took them out with me. Who’s your tailor now?”
“Oh, a new man. A duck. I’ll take you to him this afternoon. Just left one of the big houses, so his prices are quite possible—at present. Glad you’ve kept your complexion. How is it you don’t sunburn?”
“I don’t fancy people born in the tropics ever do. Glad you haven’t grown fat.”
“I’d put on a bit if it weren’t the fashion to look like a plank back and front. I’ve got to the age where I’d look better filled out. ’Fraid I’m really gettin’ on. Beaux are younger every year.”
“You look quite unchanged to me,” said Julia, politely. “How’s the duke?”
“Quite fit, I believe. They’re still at Bosquith. Margaret broke her leg huntin’.”
“Have you heard from my mother lately? I have not, for several months. I had hoped to find a letter here.”