“I am disturbing you,” I said to Prudence.
“Not in the least. Marguerite was there. When she heard you announced, she made her escape; it was she who has just gone out.”
“Is she afraid of me now?”
“No, but she is afraid that you would not wish to see her.”
“But why?” I said, drawing my breath with difficulty, for I was choked with emotion. “The poor girl left me for her carriage, her furniture, and her diamonds; she did quite right, and I don’t bear her any grudge. I met her to-day,” I continued carelessly.
“Where?” asked Prudence, looking at me and seeming to ask herself if this was the same man whom she had known so madly in love.
“In the Champs-Elysées. She was with another woman, very pretty. Who is she?”
“What was she like?”
“Blonde, slender, with side curls; blue eyes; very elegant.”
“Ah! It was Olympe; she is really very pretty.”