She had lighted only one of the low candelabra on her table, for, although it was nearly six o'clock, she and Mrs. Prynne were drinking tea alone. Pamela had been dragging out a miserable half-hour trying to entertain the pretty widow, who, in the absence of a masculine audience, lost her sparkle as quickly as evaporating champagne.
Mrs. Prynne selected a small bonbon and nibbled it placidly. "Did you know the Billops were back from New York?" she inquired between nibbles.
"Oh, of course!" Pamela looked distinctly bored. "You know she's a cousin of Paul's mother or his grandmother, Heaven knows which, and she and Sidney have taken their old apartments and she's got that little French maid of hers who does such wonderful salads. You remember, the one Sidney kissed in the Astrys' pantry?"
"I should think it bad enough to be kissed by Sidney without having to do his mother's back hair!"
"Pshaw, it's nothing but a transformation; she got it at Devigné's." Pamela was in a mood to strip conventionalities down to the naked spars.
"I've been told she's perfectly bald," rejoined Mrs. Prynne interestedly. "What do you suppose caused it?"
"Perhaps some one pulled it out; it wouldn't surprise me."
"It couldn't have been her late husband!" Mrs. Prynne giggled.
Pamela looked scornful. "My dear Lottie, he married her for her money, and he used to look like the bald-headed eagle at the Zoo,—captivity made him vicious,—but Dr. Macclesfield hints that it was Cousin Addie who did the hair-pulling."
Mrs. Prynne gazed absently out of the window. Twilight had deepened, the white lamps shone more clearly, the gay procession passed and repassed between them. "Don't you think she says dreadfully suggestive things about people—sometimes?" she ventured cautiously.