“Garçon,” he said, “will you ask the gentleman at the next table if he will do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with me. She could not hide her face. No tricks would serve. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. He certainly bore inspection. Winifred's face had a thoroughly amiable look. You don’t understand the fix I am in. She used to play violin, you know. “You knew it,” he added, in her momentary silence. Within ten minutes he had read much more than had greeted his eye. “Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked.
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