"Next winter, then," said Brent, who was observing her.
"Or—in the early spring, perhaps."
"Oh, we may change our minds and come," Palmer suggested eagerly. "I'm going to try to persuade my wife."
"Come if you can," said Brent cordially. "I'll have no one stopping with me."
When they were alone, Palmer sent his valet away and fussed about impatiently until Susan's maid had unhooked her dress and had got her ready for bed. As the maid began the long process of giving her hair a thorough brushing, he said, "Please let her go, Susan. I want to tell you something."
"She does not know a word of English."
"But these French are so clever that they understand perfectly with their eyes."
Susan sent the maid to bed and sat in a dressing gown brushing her hair. It was long enough to reach to the middle of her back and to cover her bosom. It was very thick and wavy. Now that the scarlet was washed from her lips for the night, her eyes shone soft and clear with no relief for their almost tragic melancholy. He was looking at her in profile. Her expression was stern as well as sad—the soul of a woman who has suffered and has been made strong, if not hard.
"I got a letter from my lawyers today," he began. "It was about that marriage. I'll read."
At the word "marriage," she halted the regular stroke of the brush. Her eyes gazed into the mirror of the dressing table through her reflection deep into her life, deep into the vistas of memory. As he unfolded the letter, she leaned back in the low chair, let her hands drop to her lap.
"'As the inclosed documents show,'" he read, "'we have learned and have legally verified that Jeb—not James—Ferguson divorced his wife Susan Lenox about a year after their marriage, on the ground of desertion; and two years later he fell through the floor of an old bridge near Brooksburg and was killed.'"