“Yes, Winnie, I will.”
Later on in the day he came up to her boudoir, and said to her:
“I have told him I am quite willing to have my caricature in his paper.”
“Your portrait,” she said. “All right. Leave me now, Eustace; I have some writing to do.”
As soon as he had gone she sat down and wrote a short letter, which she posted herself.
A month later Eustace came bounding up the stairs to find her.
“Winnie, Winnie!” he called. “Where are you? I’ve something to show you.”
He held a newspaper in his hand. Winifred was not in the room. Eustace rang the bell.
“Where is Mrs. Lane?” he asked of the footman who answered it.
“Gone out, sir,” the man answered.