“Of course. You don’t strictly mean high and nasal, do you? All I can say with any positiveness is that one of them had what I will call a warm voice–a voice, to make my meaning quite clear, like the crimson heart on a valentine.”
“I am enlightened. Was it the mignonette one?”
“No; the hardy-garden rose.”
“And what did she say to you in her warm crimson voice?”
“I have told you. She called for help.”
“You said, I hope, that your wife and daughters would be very happy to call on them and be of use if they could.”
“I did.”
The time-tried, well-mated friends were looking over at each other across the table, not expressing any more than at all times the quiet, daily desire of each to further the interests and comforts of the other.
“Where are they staying?” the lady continued to question.
“Hôtel de la Paix.”