So when Jaffery asked me what in the world we were going to do all day, I replied: 

“Sit here.”

“Don’t you want to see the place?”

“The place,” said I, “is parading before us.”

“We might hire a car and run over to Etretat.”

“There’s Liosha,” I objected.  “We can’t leave her alone and she’s not in a mood for jaunts.”

“She won’t leave her room to-day, poor girl.  It must be awful for her.  Oh, that swine of a blighter!”

His wrath exploded again over the iniquitous Fendihook.  For the dozenth time we went over the story.

“What on earth are we going to do with her?” he asked.  “She can’t go back to the boarding-house.”

“For the time being, at any rate, I’ll take her down to Barbara.”

“Barbara’s a wonder,” said he fervently.  “And do you know, Hilary, there’s the makings of a devilish fine woman in Liosha, if one only knew the right way to take her.”

The right way, I think, was known to me, but I did not reveal it.  I assented to Jaffery’s proposition.

“She has a vile temper and the mind and facile passions of a Spanish gipsy, but she has stunning qualities.  She’s the soul of truth and honour and as straight as a die.  And brave.  This has been a nasty knock for her; but I don’t mind betting you that as soon as she has pulled herself together she’ll treat the thing quite in a big way.”

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 cafe-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.