She was there standing before the counter, and an elderly man was displaying cloths—white flannels and serges they appeared to be. She was not in the least perturbed at my entrance.
“So you came, after all,” she said. “I wondered if you would. Now you must help me. I don't know what your taste in tennis flannels may be, but I hope it is good. I shall have these made up at Mayberry, of course. My other frocks—and I need so many of them—I shall buy in London. Do you fancy this, now?”
I don't know whether I fancied it or not. I am quite sure I could not remember what it was if I were asked.
“Well?” she asked, after an instant. “Do you?”
“I—I don't know,” I said. “May I ask you to step outside one moment. I—I have something I wish to say.”
She regarded me curiously.
“Something you wish to say?” she repeated. “What is it?”
“I—I can't tell you here.”
“Why not, pray?”
“Because I can't.”