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confidential familiarity; one felt she had the entree everywhere. "I meant to have lunched at Stewart's."

"I'm sorry you've had lunch."

"I will have more," said Mrs. Windermere recklessly. They pushed their way upstairs and stood over a little table in the window while it was vacated. Esmée untwined the dangling parcels from her fingers and propped up her umbrella in a corner. Mrs. Windermere scanned the menu with the detachment of the satiated, and Esmée confessed that she was hungry. "Then it must be rissoles," said her friend enticingly—"little chicken rissoles. I will have a cup of chocolate and an éclair." She gave the orders to the waitress and sat looking at Esmée and tapping a corner of the menu card against her mouth.

"But you don't live in town?"

"No," said Esmée; "I'm up for the day. You would have written, wouldn't you, if we hadn't met? I should have been so much disappointed if we'd never"

"I hope to come and stay with you."

"That will be lovely," said Esmée,