It seemed queer to have her ask that--I remembered so clearly her saying that she thought _eating in alleys_ odd--but I didn’t remind her, and I told her about that, and about a place where you could get the best white wine, and then of a restaurant where Sam had taken me that was always full of Italian artists, and writers and poets, and where you never saw the gleam of a red Baedeker. “He likes that sort of thing,” Leslie confided, “and I want him to have a good time--” “Of course,” I answered. She sighed, and then smiled in a sort of a foolish way. “It’ll be nice to see him,” she said weakly. “I should think it would be,” I answered. “He’s thirty-three,” she said, “but what’s ten years?” (Leslie is twenty-three) “Nothing,” I stated. It was easy to say the right thing to her that day, for she put up a sign post at every turn. “I think a man should be older than a woman--” said Leslie. I suppose she meant husband and wife. “I do too,” I agreed, and did an arpeggio. “Hear about Viola?” she asked, as she leaned against the piano. “No.” I stopped and looked up as she spoke. “Paggi had a note from a German contralto--she’s pretty well known too--Madame Heilbig; and she wants a young accompanist, and Signor P. has recommended Vi. . . . Viola’s to try out with the lady next week when she goes through here, and I believe Madame Heilbig will tour the States next year. . . . Viola will _love_ that. She’s already planning what she will wear. . . . Do you remember how she expected to accompany a slim tenor with pretty brown eyes?” I did, and I laughed. Leslie laughed too, but not as kindly as I had--really she didn’t--for she and Viola, in spite of being friends again, still held a scratchy feeling toward each other. “Nothing ever turns out as I expect it to,” said Leslie, “I’m beginning to get over being surprised about anything. . . . Do you think a man would like that flower toque of mine?” “He will unless he’s blind,” I replied, and then I told her to get out, because I had to go on with my work, but I didn’t have much time alone, for in a second Viola appeared. “_Darling_,” she called from the doorway, “have you _heard_ the _news_?” I gave up then; I had to. “Not your version of it,” I answered; and she came skipping across the room to drop on a chair near me, and babble. There is no other description of it! She was so excited that she hardly stopped for breath.