And as if to prove his assertion, who should come sailing towards us past the long line of empty tables but Liosha herself. Another woman would have lain weeping on her bed and one of us would have had to soothe her and sympathise with her, and coax her to eat and cajole her into revisiting the light of day. Not so Liosha. She arrayed herself in fresh, fawn-coloured coat and skirt, fitting close to her splendid figure, which she held erect, a smart hat with a feather, and new white gloves, and came to us the incarnation of summer, clear-eyed as the morning, our roses pinned in her corsage. Of course she was pale and her lips were not quite under control, but she made a valiant show.
We arose as she approached, but she motioned us back to our chairs.
"Don't get up. I guess I'll join you."
We drew up a chair and she seated herself between us. Then she looked steadily and unsmilingly from one to the other.
"I want to thank you two. I've been a damn fool."
"Well, old girl," said Jaffery kindly, "I must own you've been rather indiscreet."
"I've been a damn fool," she repeated.
"Anyhow it's over now. Thank goodness," said I. "Did you eat your breakfast?"
She made a little wry face. No, she could not touch it. What would she have now? I sent a waiter for café-au-lait and a brioche and lectured her on the folly of going without proper sustenance. The ghost of a smile crept into her eyes, in recognition, I suppose, of the hedonism with which I am wrongly credited by my friends. Then she thanked us for the roses. They were big, like her, she said. The waiter set out the little tray and the verseur poured out the coffee and milk. We watched her eat and drink. Having finished she said she felt better.
"You've got some sense, Hilary," she admitted.