“Then I think I’ll join you.”
And drawing her friend’s arm within her own, Miss Sinquier moved away.
“She must belong to more than one weekly!” she reflected.
“You didn’t mention your Old Mechlin scarf, or your fox-trimmed nightie,” Mrs. Sixsmith murmured, dexterously evading the psychic freedoms of the masked adept.
“Have you no shame, Paul?” she asked.
“Paul!”
Miss Sinquier wondered.
“Mephisto! I know his parlour tricks ... though it would only be just, perhaps, to say he did foresee our separation some time before it occurred.”
“Oh, how extraordinary.”
“Once as I was making ready to pay some calls, in order to frighten me, he caused the hare’s foot on my toilet-table to leave its carton sheath and go skipping about the room.”