Mrs Montgomery sipped her wine.
“When the wind goes whistling up and down under the colonnades: oh, then!” she shivered.
“You’ll wish for a fine, bold Pisuergian husband; shan’t you?” he answered, his foot drawing closer to hers.
“Often of an evening, I feel I need fostering,” she owned, glancing up yearningly into his face.
“Fostering, eh?” he chuckled, refilling with exuberance her glass.
“Why is it that wine always makes me feel so good?”
“Probably, because it fills you with affection for your neighbour!”
“It’s true; I feel I could be very affectionate: I’m what they call an ‘amoureuse’ I suppose, and there it is....”
There fell a busy silence between them.
“It’s almost too warm for a fire,” she murmured, repairing towards the window; “but I like to hear the crackle!”