Somewhere, in the story, in the circumstances, there was some small thing that left a question in that sober analytical mind of hers.
What was it?
And then, with what he always remembered afterwards as the only perfect sample of telepathic communication in his experience, he paused as he was stepping into his car, and said: "Had she anything in her pockets when she came home?"
"She had only one pocket; the one in her dress."
"And was there anything in it?"
There was the faintest tightening of the muscles round her mouth. "Just a lipstick," she said, evenly.
"A lipstick! She is a little young for that, isn't she?"
"My dear Mr. Blair, they start experimenting with lipstick at the age of ten. As a wet-day amusement it has taken the place of dressing-up in Mother's things."
"Yes, probably; Woolworth is a great benefactor."
She smiled and said goodbye again and moved towards the house as he drove away.