” She looked down at the flowers, still in shock, and gently laid them over her arm like a Miss America candidate practicing a crowning ceremony at a pajama party. “But it’s a long business. Coffee à la Turque wasn't so bad; but a guy couldn't soak his breakfast toast in it. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. Mind you don't stir till supper's over. She was greatly exercised by the problem of confiding in the Widgetts; they were dears, and she talked away two evenings with Constance without broaching the topic; she made some vague intimations in letters to Miss Miniver that Miss Miniver failed to mark. "How goes it?" he began, heartily. "I might return the question. “Then let me be the judge of what is best,” she answered. They came from every part, from the pit, the circle and the gallery, even from the stalls. ‘It is London’s loss, ma’am.
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