"Yes. How did you know?"
"They are very unwholesome, and—and you said he had been ill."
"You are going to the Hilliers' to-night," Mrs. Mounteagle says, unfolding a parcel on her lap. "You intend wearing your white silk, I believe."
"Yes. It is good enough for them."
"I should think so, the cut of the skirt is lovely, but I am not altogether satisfied with the severe bodice. I want you to wear this fichu of mine, it is a perfect gem."
She holds out a cloud of spangled gauze.
"How lovely!" cries Eleanor, flinging her arms round the widow's neck.
"You're very welcome to it."
"Philip is deserting me to-night," continues Eleanor—"business in London."
"How dull you will be going and returning to your party alone. I know!" (her face lightening up as with some magic inspiration) "I'll come and stay the night with you, dear, see you dressed, and have a real good gossip up in your room about those stupid Hilliers afterwards."