“Madame,” he said, “it is impossible that I am mistaken. I have had the pleasure, have I not, of meeting you in St. Petersburg?”
Her first reception of his coming was reassuring enough. At his mention of St. Petersburg, however, she frowned.
“I do not think so,” she answered, in French. “You are mistaken. I do not know St. Petersburg.”
“Then it was in Paris,” Bernadine continued, with conviction. “Madame is Parisian, without a doubt.”
She shook her head, smiling.
“I do not think that I remember meeting you, Monsieur,” she replied, doubtfully, “but perhaps—”
She looked up, and her eyes dropped before his. He was certainly a very personable looking man, and she had spoken to no one for so many months.
“Believe me, Madame, I could not possibly be mistaken,” Bernadine assured her, smoothly. “You are staying here for long?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Heaven knows!” she declared. “My husband he has, I think, what you call the wander fever. For myself, I am tired of it. In Rome we settle down, we stay five days, all seems pleasant, and suddenly my husband’s whim carries us away without an hour’s notice. The same thing at Monte Carlo, the same in Paris. Who can tell what will happen here? To tell you the truth, Monsieur,” she added, a little archly, “I think that if he were to come back at this moment, we should probably leave England to-night.”