"Well, never mind," I tried to make peace, "she hasn't your hands,"—I knew that women cared more about their hands than their faces.
"How do you know?" she retorted; "you cannot see through her gloves."
"Would any gloves disguise your hands?" I persisted. "They would shine through the mittens of an Esquimau."
"Well, enough of that! See—I know it's wickedly mean of me—but couldn't you manage to sit somewhere near them and hear what they are saying? Of course you needn't tell me anything it would be mean to hear, but only what—"
"You would like to know."
But this little plot died at its birth, for that very minute the threatened couple arose, and went out arm in arm, apparently as absurdly happy as two young people can be.
As they passed out, one of Rosalind's fellow bar-maids turned to her and said,—
"You know who that was?"
"Who?" said Rosalind, startled.
"That pretty woman who went out with that young Johnny just now?"