indow which had arrested her. The
establishment was that of a hair specialist, and the window was mainly
occupied by two girls who sat in arm-chairs with their backs to the glass,
and all their magnificent hair spread out at length over the backs of the
chairs for the inspection of the public; the implication being that the
magnificent hair was due to the specific of the hair specialist. Passers-by
continually stopped to gaze at the spectacle, but they never stopped long,
because the spectacle was monotonous.

"Well, what about her?" said Audrey, staring.

"Isn't it Lady Southminster?"

"Good heavens!" Audrey's mind went back to the Channel packet and the rain
squall and the scenes on the Paris train. "So it is! Whatever can have
happened to her? Let's go in."

And in they went, Audrey leading, and demanding at once a bottle of the
specific; Audrey had scarcely spoken when the left-hand girl in the window,
who, of course, from her vantage had a full view of the shop, screamed
lightly and jumped down from the window.

"Don't give me away!" she whispered appealingly in Audrey's ear. The next
moment, not heeding the excitement of the shop manager, she had drawn
Audrey and Miss Ingate through another door which led into the
entrance-hall of the Majestic Hotel. The shop was thus contrived to catch
two publics at once.

"If they knew I was Lady Southminster in there," said Lady Southminster in
a feverish murmur--she seemed not averse to the sensation caused by her
hair in the twilight of the hotel--"I expect I should lose my place, and I
don't want to lose it. _He'll_ be coming by presently, and he'll see me,
and it'll be a lesson to him. We're always together. Race meetings, dances,
golf, restaurants, bridge. Twenty-four hours every day. He won't lose sight
of me. He's that fond of me, you know. I couldn't stand it. I'd as lief be
in prison--only I'm that fond of him, you know. But I was so homesick, and
I felt if I didn't have a change I should burst. This is
Constantinopoulos's old shop, you know, where I used to make cigarettes in
the window. He's dead, Constantinopoulos is. I don't know what _he'd_ have
said to hair restorers. I asked for the place, and I showed 'em my hair,
and I got it. And me sitting there--it's quite like old times. Only
before, you know, I used to have my face to the street. I don't know which
I like best. But, anyhow, you can see my profile from the side window. And
_he_ will. He always looks