“My dear, have you been quite well these days past?”
She seemed surprised at the question:
“I?”
“Why yes, you! You seemed rather tired, I thought!”
She opened her handbag, produced a beauty-box and looked into the tiny mirror that was on its cover. Then she laughed:
“What can you be dreaming of, silly! You quite frightened me! But my skin is as rosy as a milkmaid’s!”
That was true. The exhilaration of the drive had brought the ruddiest glow to her cheeks. She brushed them over with her powder puff, however. I might well have accepted the explanation, but a feeling of uneasiness came over me. Might there not be strange diseases that eat out the vitality of a person without changing appearances of perfect health? Certain fevers bring rosiness and not pallor to the features!
I had not seen Madeleine for nearly a week just previous. She usually told me all she did. Perhaps she had been tiring herself in some way or other:
“What have you been doing, love, since I saw you Tuesday?”
“Since Tuesday?” she repeated with some hesitation.