“Was he, indeed?—­and you the barest acquaintances!” quizzed Mrs. O’Donovan Florence, pulling a face.  “Well, well,” she went on thoughtfully, “if he’s in love with another woman, that settles my last remaining doubt.  It can only be that the other woman’s yourself.”

Beatrice shook her head, and laughed again.

“Is that what they call an Irishism?” she asked, with polite curiosity.

“And an Irishism is a very good thing, too—­when employed with intention,” retorted her friend.  “Did he just chance, now, in a casual way, to mention the other woman’s name, I wonder?”

“Oh, you perverse and stiff-necked generation!” Beatrice laughed.  “What can his mentioning or not mentioning her name signify?  For since he’s in love with her, it’s hardly likely that he’s in love with you or me at the same time, is it?”

“That’s as may be.  But I’ll wager I could make a shrewd guess at her name myself.  And what else did he tell you about her?  He’s told me nothing; but I’ll warrant I could paint her portrait.  She’s a fine figure of a young Englishwoman, brown-haired, grey-eyed, and she stands about five-feet-eight in her shoes.  There’s an expression of great malice and humour in her physiognomy, and a kind of devil-may-care haughtiness in the poise of her head.  She’s a bit of a grande dame, into the bargain—­something like an Anglo-Italian duchess, for example; she’s monstrously rich; and she adds, you’ll be surprised to learn, to her other fascinations that of being a widow.  Faith, the men are so fond of widows, it’s a marvel to me that we’re ever married at all until we reach that condition;—­and there, if you like, is another Irishism for you.  But what’s this?  Methinks a rosy blush mantles my lady’s brow.  Have I touched the heel of Achilles?  She is a widow?  He told you she was a widow? . . .  But—­bless us and save us!—­what’s come to you now?  You’re as white as a sheet.  What is it?”

“Good heavens!” gasped Beatrice.  She lay back in her chair, and stared with horrified eyes into space.  “Good—­good heavens!”

Mrs. O’ Donovan Florence leaned forward and took her hand.

“What is it, my dear?  What’s come to you?” she asked, in alarm.

Beatrice gave a kind of groan.

“It’s absurd—­it’s impossible,” she said; “and yet, if by any ridiculous chance you should be right, it’s too horribly horrible.”  She repeated her groan.  “If by any ridiculous chance you are right, the man will think that I have been leading him on!”

“Leading him on!” Mrs. O’Donovan Florence suppressed a shriek of ecstatic mirth.  “There’s no question about my being right,” she averred soberly.  “He wears his heart behind his eyeglass; and whoso runs may read it.”

“Well, then—­” began Beatrice, with an air of desperation . . .  “But no,” she broke off.  “You can’t be right.  It’s impossible, impossible.  Wait.  I’ll tell you the whole story.  You shall see for yourself.”