“No; I didn’t suppose she’d be that. And what’s Mrs.—the other one like?”
“Mrs. Le Moine. Oh, well—she’s—she’s very nice, too.”
“Pretty?”
“Rather beautiful, she is. Irish, and a little Hungarian, I believe. She plays marvellously.”
“Yes, you said that.”
Daphne’s thoughts on Mrs. Le Moine produced the question, “Is she married, or a widow?”
“Married. She’s quite friends with her husband.”
“Well, I suppose she would be. Ought to be, anyhow. Can we have her without him, by the way?”
“Oh, they don’t live together. That’s why they’re friends. They weren’t till they parted. Everyone asks them about separately of course. She lives with a Miss Hogan, an awfully charming person. I’d love to ask her, too, but there wouldn’t be room. I wonder if mother’ll mind my asking those three?”
“You’d better find out,” advised Daphne. “They won’t rub father the wrong way, I suppose, will they? He doesn’t like being surprised, remember. You’d better warn Mr. Denison not to talk against religion or anything.”