"That surely is obvious, even to eyes not very wide open. But tell me about yourself and your work, dear Miss Somers; women who work are always interesting."
Her work, she replied, was not particularly interesting, rather drudging and casual. Family misfortune had obliged her to provide for herself; she had not been brought up to any profession, but to leisure and comparative affluence. She had tried companioning and secretarial work, even a little hack literary work. She had no decided talent for anything. Her parents were early lost; she had been partly brought up by an aunt—"What! another aunt?" Ermengarde murmured to herself—whose affairs had become entangled and her means diminished, especially during late years. "So I have to work," the woman of mystery said, with a sigh that implied intense weariness and disgust at the necessity, "to take at least one burden from my poor aunt's shoulders."
"Far too thin," Ermengarde thought, and hazarded the observation that the woman of mystery must be greatly enjoying her present holiday; to which she replied that she certainly was, her expenses being supplied by her employer, to whom her sojourn in those regions was in some vague way useful.
"You are possibly collecting information on his behalf?"
"In a way—yes," she admitted, with a faint blush.
"A detective way? Shadowing? Family mysteries?"
"One can't always explain—in detail——"
"Especially in work of such a delicate nature."
The sphinx mask had suddenly fallen back on the woman of mystery's features, and she had audibly remembered a letter to take down for the post.
Having done this, she returned only just in time to dress for dinner and bring the menu for the invalid to select from.