Fanny sat down. Annandale seated himself by her. “You know? Don’t you—?”
“Oh, yes,” Fanny interrupted. “But then—”
“Then what?”
“Nothing. Only it is so much better so, don’t you think?”
“Better!” Annandale fiercely repeated.
“Why, yes. You and Sylvia were totally unsuited for each other. She is the best and dearest girl in the world. But—here is the waiter. Will you tell him to fetch me a lemon squash?”
Annandale gave the order.
“With raspberries in it,” Fanny called at the waiter’s retreating back. “Aren’t you going to take anything?”
In deep gloom Annandale shook his head.
Fanny laughed. “Drink delights you not; no, nor woman either.”
“You see—”
“Yes, yes, yes. Of course I see. But why cannot you? Why can’t you see that you and Sylvia stood as much chance of hitting it off as though you both spoke a different language? A break was bound to come.”
But now the man appeared with the squash. Fanny looked at it. “Only two raspberries,” she cried. “And such little ones.”
“Bring a dish of them,” said Annandale. “I suppose,” he resumed as the waiter again retreated, “I suppose she will find somebody with whom she can hit it off.”