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N the doorway of Fullers', Regent Street, they came face to face. Mrs. Windermere grasped both Esmée's wrists, drew them towards her bosom, and cried in her deep tremolo, "My dear!"

Esmée had not imagined Mrs. Windermere out of Italy. She had never pictured that little pug-dog face without the background of flickering olives, or of velvety sun-gold walls, with cypresses dotted here and there like the exclamation-marks in the lady's conversation. Mrs. Windermere now regarded her with intensity through the long fringes of her hat-brim. She said, "The same Esmée!" and gently massaged the wrists with her thumbs.

"This is splendid," said Esmée inadequately, conscious of a rising pinkness and of the long stream of outcoming ladies dammed by their encounter. "What a funny coincidence!"

"God guided me, dearest!" Mrs. Windermere always mentioned the Deity with