Winnery, as the freshly buried statue. Mrs. Weatherby at once struck an attitude in the fake Renaissance chair and began to talk about herself. Anubis the parrot blinked at them and gave out a series of disgruntled croaks. Everything was exactly the same as before save that one of the Pomeranians, instead of yapping, lay with a pallid expression on a Veronese green pillow trimmed with gold, and that the view through the loggia was even more magnificent in the clear transparent air that had followed the dust-laden sirocco. He was aware that there was still no sign of Miss Fosdick nor any reference to her. He reminded himself that it was Miss Fosdick after all whom he had come to see. He did not care to hear any more of the history of Mrs. Weatherby.
Once, however, Mrs. Weatherby did turn aside from her principal subject, but only long enough to ask for the latest developments in the scandalous affair of Miss Annie Spragg. He passed on to her what he had heard that morning from Maria. It was information which only left her where she had been before. He had not, he told her when asked, seen Father d'Astier, although he had seen the Principessa d'Orobelli driving across the square with a stranger, a man, to be exact. This bit of simple information he translated with the slight but meaning inflection that had come to be a habit born of long association with the old ladies of Brinoë.
"A very interesting woman," said Mrs. Weatherby. "I have never before seen an aura so red."
"Ah, you understand auras," murmured Mr. Winnery in a helpless effort to fill in time until he
