"Why, how interested you are! She is, but not a bad sort of flirt. She's one of those people all heart—she loves everything and everybody—up to a certain point."
"Do you think she is in love with any man—beyond a certain point?"
"Can't say," said Miss Morgan, shaking her head sagely; "but when she does, she'll go the whole hog. The man she'll love she'll love for ever and ever, and die on his grave, and that sort of thing, you know."
"I believe you are right."
"Why, how do you know? You've never met her."
"I was referring to your description of her. Girls of her impulsive nature—er—generally do—I mean they are generally warm-hearted and that sort of thing."
"There's one man I think she has a fancy for," said Miss Morgan, staring into space with her wide-open blue eyes, "but he's poor as a rat—an awfully nice fellow, a painter; Mr Lambert fished him up somewhere in a café. He and Fanny and I and a friend of his went and had dinner at a little café near the Boul' Miche. Then we got lost—that is to say, I and Heidenheimer lost sight of Fanny and her friend; and Fanny told me afterwards she'd had no end of a good time finding her way home; so'd I. 'Twas awfully improper, of course, but no one knew, and it was in Paris."
"I may be old-fashioned, of course," said Mr Bevan stiffly, "but I think people can't be too careful, you know—um—how long was Miss Lambert lost with Mr——"
"Leavesley—that's his name. Oh! she didn't turn up at the hotel till after eight."
"Did Mr Lambert know?"