Neither the manners, the looks, nor the attire of these gentlemen prepossessed Mrs. Ramage demurred. Even that he was an interfering person, if he walked through that door this moment, she would fling herself at him and weep all over his chest. They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage’s orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. A fire enveloped her, a fire which was strangely healing, filling her heart with warmth, blotting out the menace of the world.
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