“Well, madam....”
“Oh, dear! why are English maids so stupid! Why have they no taste! Why must good maids always be French? Oh, Foster, what shall I do? You are so lacking in ideas, in finesse, in judgment, in all sartorial courtliness! On the other hand, you are a very nice girl and I like you very much, and, anyway, you are clean, which is a good deal more than some of my friends are, what with being in a hurry and powder being so cheap. I withdraw everything I said previous to that last sentence, Foster.”
“There is the black sequin, madam....”
“There is certainly the black sequin, Foster. And there has been the black sequin ever since the Armistice. You may have it for yourself, Foster, for being such an ass.”
“Oh, thank you, madam!”
“So you say, but what will really happen will be that you will wear that black sequin dress one night at the Hammersmith Palais de Danse, which I hear is very modish these days, and some young man will take a fancy to you, and you will marry him, and then where will I be? I ask you, Foster, where will I be?”
“Oh, but, madam, I would never, never leave you!”
“Pouf!” said Shelmerdene. “But, talking of that, Foster, how would you like it if I married again? Or if my husband came back? Ah, yes,” said Shelmerdene softly, “if he came back....”
Foster did not know what to say. She wanted to ask a few questions. She was a nice girl, but she wanted frightfully to ask a few questions. She whispered:
“Do you think, madam, he will?”