I'm not a lot out in my reckoning, there's
a pair of cars coming in through the glass door yonder that understand
English."

We stood up and bowed, foreign fashion, as the newcomer seated herself
at a table near us, and she had soon drawn Haigh and the anarchist into
conversation. She had just purchased a Majolica bowl, under repeated
assurance that it was a piece of the genuine old lustre-ware. My two
companions (as I learnt with surprise) were enthusiasts and experts on
the subject, and they both assured her that the specimen she had
procured was undoubtedly spurious. It seems there is a factory at
Valencia where the bogus stuff is made, and a large trade is done in it
with the curio-collectors. And, moreover, every house on the island has
been searched by local pottery-fanatics, and every scrap of the
authentic lustre-ware stored in their salons or museums. Afterwards,
they went on to the vexed topic as to whether the ware had ever been
manufactured in the island at all. Haigh was of opinion that it had
been made in Valencia, and carted over to Italy in Mallorcan craft,
which were in the Middle Ages great carriers in the Mediterranean. This
would easily account for the name Majolica. Taltavull held that it was
a genuine product of the island, though he was bound to admit that no
remains of manufacturing potteries had as yet been discovered. And so
they went at it hammer and tongs, deduction and counter-deduction,
proof and counter-proof; and the owner of that glittering mauve-marked
bowl which had started the discussion threw in a well-considered word
here and there to keep the argument well alive.

Women are not in my way to talk to, but I sat in the background
watching this clever stirrer-up of conversation for want of anything
better to do. She was a woman with dark hair, just tinged with gray,
with features that would have been pleasant enough if they had not been
a trifle over-hard. She was neatly but not showily dressed, and wore a
little jewellery of a ten-years-back fashion. She retained her hat and
jacket, and one got the idea that she habitually wore them, except in
bed.

In fact, she was one of that cohort of masterless women who are so
copiously spread over the Continent. You find them from Trondjhem to
Athens, from Nishni to Cadiz, seldom far from the beaten track, never
under breeched escort. They speak three popular languages fluently, and
usually know some out-of-the-way tongue such as Gaelic or Al