"Oh, nonsense!" As she started to walk doorward she turned her face directly toward his and gave him a deprecatory little smile of understanding, exactly like the one Beatrice had thrown him a short time ago.
The coincidence at first rather took him aback. He was conscious, as the men rearranged themselves for coffee and cigars, of a feeling of loss, almost of desecration; the sort of feeling one might experience on seeing somebody else wear one's mother's wedding gown. Nobody but Beatrice had any real business to smile like that—to him, at least. Then it occurred to him that that was all nonsense; either it was all on or all off between him and Beatrice. After all, Madge's smile was just about as good to look at as Beatrice's, if one made allowance against the latter's unusual beauty. Madge was not unattractive in her way, either....
Madge sang, of course. James enjoyed her singing very much, the more so for what she had told him at dinner. During her performance an inspiration came to him which he presently made an opportunity to impart to her.
"Look here," he asked; "have you ever sung for Beatrice's working girls?"
"No," answered she in some surprise. "Why?"
"Why not?"
"I've never been asked, for one thing!"
"Would you, if you were? I'd like to suggest it to Beatrice, at any rate."
"That's all very well for me, but what about the poor working girls?"
"I should say that any working girl that didn't want to hear you sing didn't deserve to be helped. I may suggest it to her, then?"