It was February and it was sunny, and Noel had persuaded Connie to take a little gentle exercise in the Park.
She was finding London bearable, thanks to her nephew, and although she had, she said, nothing to look forward to, she was content with the present as long as the present remained as it was now.
They were discussing men in general, a topic that never lost its interest for Connie.
"Can't think why you're so keen on foreigners," Noel remarked; then said in his merciless way, "the only Englishman you ever had much to do with you ran away from."
Connie was quite soberly dressed in a dark blue coat and skirt, relieved by furs, hat, shoes and gloves of her favorite gray. She was no more made up than most of the other women who passed them. It was her forty-eighth birthday, and to celebrate it they were going to lunch at Claridge's later.
"Foreigners interest me so much more," she replied. "They understand women."
