"Then bring me the telegram, and point out to me the lady."
"It is the lady who arrived yesterday," answered the waiter. "She came, as I understand, with an old lady and gentleman, but they have left this morning for the Isle of Wight, and she remains alone."
He indicated the fair traveller, and I might have guessed her nationality from the fact that, unlike the Englishwomen present, she was breakfasting in her hat. She was a pretty woman—no longer quite young—with a pale oval face and deep brown hair. As I approached she, having breakfasted, was drawing her veil down over her face, and subsequently attended to her hat with pretty, studied movements of the hands and arms which were essentially French.
She returned my bow with quiet self-possession, and graciously looked to me to speak.
"The waiter tells me," I said in French, "that I am fortunate enough to possess some news which may be of interest to you."
"If it is news of France, Monsieur, I am sur des épingles until I hear it."
I laid the telegram before her, and she looked at it with a pretty shake of the head which wafted to me some faint and pleasant scent.
"Translate, if you please," she said. "I blush for an ignorance of which you might have spared me the confession."
It was a pretty profile that bent over the telegram, and I wished that I had arrived sooner, before she had lowered her veil. She followed my translation with a nod of the head, but did not raise her eyes.
"And this word?" pointing out the name of my agent with so keen an interest that she touched my hand with her gloved fingers. "This word 'Sander,' what is that?"