The soft blush had now overspread the whole of the girl’s face, even down to her graceful neck. She waited to see Marguerite comfortably installed in an armchair, then she resumed shyly:
“And it was Armand who told me all about you. He loves you so dearly.”
“Armand and I were very young children when we lost our parents,” said Marguerite softly, “and we were all in all to each other then. And until I married he was the man I loved best in all the world.”
“He told me you were married—to an Englishman.”
“Yes?”
“He loves England too. At first he always talked of my going there with him as his wife, and of the happiness we should find there together.”
“Why do you say ‘at first’?”
“He talks less about England now.”
“Perhaps he feels that now you know all about it, and that you understand each other with regard to the future.”
“Perhaps.”