'Are you referring to—?'
Madame Frabelle looked out of the window and nodded.
'Yes—Mr Mitchell!'
Edith started, and a smile curved her lips.
'It's always the husband's great friend, unfortunately,' sighed Eglantine. 'Oh, my dear' (with the usual cheap, ready-made knowingness of the cynic), 'I've seen so much of that. Now I'm going to help you. I'm determined to leave you two dear, charming people without a cloud, when I go.'
'You're not thinking of going?'
'Not yet … no. Not while you let me stay here, dear. I've friends in London, and in the country, but I haven't looked them up, or written to them, or done anything since I've been here. I've been too happy. I couldn't be bothered. I am so interested in you! Another thing—may I say?—for I feel as if I'd known you for years. You think your husband doesn't know it. You are wrong.'
'Am I really?'
'Quite. Last night a certain look when he spoke of the Mitchells showed me that Bruce is terribly jealous. He doesn't show it, but he is.'
'But—Mrs Mitchell?' suggested Edith. 'She's one of our best friends—a dear thing. By the way, we're asking them to dine with us on Tuesday.'