"Is that what they call an Irishism?" she asked, with polite
curiosity.

"And an Irishism is a very good thing, too--when employed with
intention," retorted her friend. "Did he just chance, now, in
a casual way, to mention the other woman's name, I wonder?"

"Oh, you perverse and stiff-necked generation!" Beatrice
laughed. "What can his mentioning or not mentioning her name
signify? For since he's in love with her, it's hardly likely
that he's in love with you or me at the same time, is it?"

"That's as may be. But I'll wager I could make a shrewd guess
at her name myself. And what else did he tell you about her?
He's told me nothing; but I'll warrant I could paint her
portrait. She's a fine figure of a young Englishwoman,
brown-haired, grey-eyed, and she stands about five-feet-eight
in her shoes. There's an expression of great malice and humour
in her physiognomy, and a kind of devil-may-care haughtiness in
the poise of her head. She's a bit of a grande dame, into the
bargain--something like an Anglo-Italian duchess, for example;
she's monstrously rich; and she adds, you'll be surprised to
learn, to her other fascinations that of being a widow. Faith,
the men are so fond of widows, it's a marvel to me that we're
ever married at all until we reach that condition;--and there,
if you like, is another Irishism for you. But what's this?
Methinks a rosy blush mantles my lady's brow. Have I touched
the heel of Achilles? She IS a widow? He TOLD you she was a
widow? . . . But--bless us and save us!--what's come to you
now? You're as white as a sheet. What is it?"