Barbara looked at her as though all the Italian’s subtle suggestiveness beat on nothing more intelligent than the blank surface of a wall.
“Do you keep a diary, madam?”
Hortense laughed.
“Oh, life is my diary, and then—I write on the faces of those I meet.”
“Do you—how?”
“You must guess my meaning.”
“I can never guess anything.”
“How dull! Have you travelled much—with your mother?”
“My mother?”
“Yes. Is she not charming? so young—and Junelike! She should promise you a long youth.”