‘No,’ she replied instantly; ‘never before yesterday evening.’
‘Be frank,’ I urged her, smiling sadly.
‘Why should I not be frank, madame?’ she said, with a grave, gentle appeal.
It was as if she had said: ‘We are talking woman to woman. I know one of your secrets. You can guess mine. The male is present, but he is deaf. What reason, therefore, for deceit?’
‘I am much obliged to you,’ I breathed.
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Decidedly he is alcoholic—that sees itself,’ she proceeded. ‘But drunk—no!... He was always alone.’
‘Always alone?’
‘Always.’
Her eyes filled. I thought I had never seen a creature more gentle, delicate, yielding, acquiescent, and fair. She was not beautiful, but she had grace and distinction of movement. She was a Parisienne. She had won my sympathy. We met in a moment when my heart needed the companionship of a woman’s heart, and I was drawn to her by one of those sudden impulses that sometimes draw women to each other. I cared not what she was. Moreover, she had excited my curiosity. She was a novelty in my life. She was something that I had heard of, and seen—yes, and perhaps envied in secret, but never spoken with. And she shattered all my preconceptions about her.
‘You are an old tenant of this house?’ I ventured.