Prudence Duvernoy (that was the milliner’s auspicious name) was one of those fat women of forty with whom one requires very little diplomacy to make them understand what one wants to know, especially when what one wants to know is as simple as what I had to ask of her.
I took advantage of a moment when she was smiling across at Marguerite to ask her, “Whom are you looking at?”
“Marguerite Gautier.”
“You know her?”
“Yes, I am her milliner, and she is a neighbour of mine.”
“Do you live in the Rue d’Antin?”
“No. 7. The window of her dressing-room looks on to the window of mine.”
“They say she is a charming girl.”
“Don’t you know her?”
“No, but I should like to.”