Pink Roses

other women, and she decided on the top corner where Trevor could sit with his back to the diners, and she could see what was going on among the regular frequenters of the place. She told the maitre d'hotel, who looked like a gargoyle from a Dore illustration of Rabelais, that she wanted an extra special dinner. " As usual ?" said the maitre d'hotel, and Cora frowned. " Mr. Ysnaga has ordered a table already," said the maitre d'hotel. " I am not dining with Mr. Ysnaga," snapped Cora, and she wished she could arrange to meet Trevor somewhere else, but she did not know his address. She had tea at the Claribel and afterwards, the evening being fine, she walked along to the Park and sat where Trevor had sat on the evening of their first encounter. There was no band, but she stayed until she was chilled, imagining herself back in the country meeting a young man like Trevor, going through all the stages of courting yrith him, being taken home and introduced to his family,and?here she was so moved that tears rolled down her cheeks?married, living in a little house. . . . Why not? Everybody said she was a good sort. She understood men and food and marketing. She had never lost her head like some girls, and she had kept wonderfully fresh and young. . . . She knew several girls, French girls too, who had got married. She had bought herself a blue crepe de chine frock, and she wore white suede shoes and silk stockings. Her hat was a neat little blue straw wit...