“I am afraid you will find the Spa very empty just now,” said the baroness critically.  “But there are a few of your compatriots here, however, and they are always amusing.  You see that somewhat faded blonde sitting quite alone in that arbor?  That is her position day after day, while her husband openly flirts or is flirted with by half the women here.  Quite the opposite experience one has of American women, where it’s all the other way, is it not?  And there is an odd story about her which may account for, if it does not excuse, her husband’s neglect.  They’re very rich, but they say she was originally a mere servant in a hotel.”

“You forget that I told you I was once only a housekeeper in one,” said Miss Trotter, smiling.

“Nonsense.  I mean that this woman was a mere peasant, and frightfully ignorant at that!”

Miss Trotter put up her eyeglass, and, after a moment’s scrutiny, said gently, “I think you are a little severe.  I know her; it’s a Mrs. Bilson.”

“No, my dear.  You are quite wrong.  That was the name of her first husband.  I am told she was a widow who married again—­quite a fascinating young man, and evidently her superior—­that is what is so funny.  She is a Mrs. Calton—­’Mrs. Chris Calton,’ as she calls herself.”

“Is her husband—­Mr. Calton—­here?” said Miss Trotter after a pause, in a still gentler voice.

“Naturally not.  He has gone on an excursion with a party of ladies to the Schwartzberg.  He returns to-morrow.  You will find her very stupid, but he is very jolly, though a little spoiled by women.  Why do we always spoil them?”

Miss Trotter smiled, and presently turned the subject.  But the baroness was greatly disappointed to find the next day that an unexpected telegram had obliged Miss Trotter to leave the Spa without meeting the Caltons.