Sir William stepped to her side, crooked his arm, drew hers through it.
"Shall we have a cup of coffee, somewhere?" he said; adding in droll answer to his own invitation, "Yes, we shall, shan't we, my dear?"
Daisy, feeling as though she had temporarily become twins—one twin going along quite naturally and unquestioningly by this queer stranger's side, and the other, agog with merry curiosity, following along to see how the adventure was going to turn out—was conscious of a short walk under the city's arc-lights, an entry into a cafe on the ground floor of a great and handsome apartment-block, a side-turn into a curtained alcove, and a half involuntary sitting-down into a chair pushed adroitly behind her by a waiter in full dress and with an uncanny plaster-cast face. A table, with linen, shining silver, and cut-glass was between the quiescent twin of her queer dual self and her companion. The other twin of her, seemed to stand a bit aside, twinkling and vigilant.
Sir William, without looking at the menu the waiter held before him, gave a brisk order. As the attendant moved smoothly and quickly away, Ware filled two of the shining glasses in the centre of the table with ice-water, clinked them together, and passed one to Daisy.
"To Lady Ware," he said, gravely and pleasantly, as he drank. Daisy—at least that twin half of her who companioned the baronet at the table—seemed to know exactly what to do. She lifted her glass and sipped, tipping her little-finger up. Then her two halves merged into one a moment, and the whole Daisy said:
"Who's Lady Ware?"
Her companion, whose name she did not yet know, looked across at her with a kind of pondering exaltation—a deep but self-contained joy.
"She's one who has been a long time arriving," he said, "a long, long time, my dear. But she's here at last."
"You're an Englishman, aren't you?" Daisy plumped, naively.
"Guilty, on all counts," Sir William smiled, "but I think we shall manage to live that down, shan't we. I'm sure we can do so, if we both try hard, and try together."