“Darling,” said Audrey quietly and confidently. “If he does not agree, I undertake to go into a convent for the rest of my days.”
Madame Piriac was silent.
Just as she was opening the door to go upstairs, Audrey suddenly turned back into the room.
“Darling,” she said, kissing Madame Piriac. “How calmly you’ve taken it!”
“Taken what?”
“About me not being Mrs. Moncreiff nor a widow nor anything of that kind.”
“But, darling,” answered Madame Piriac with exquisite tranquillity. “Of course I knew it before.”
“You knew it before!”
“Certainly. I knew it the first time I saw you, in the studio of Mademoiselle Nickall. You were the image of your father! The image, I repeat—except perhaps the nose. Recollect that as a child I saw your father. I was left with my mother’s relatives, until matters should be arranged; but he came to Paris. Then before matters could be arranged my mother died, and I never saw him again. But I could never forget him.... Then also, in my boudoir that night, you blushed—it was very amusing—when I mentioned Essex and Audrey Moze. And there were other things.”
“For instance?”