“Of my husband’s affairs,” the woman said, “there is no one so ignorant as I. Yet since we left our own country, this is the first time I have known him willingly speak to a soul.”
“Your own country,” Bernadine repeated, softly. “That was Russia, of course. Your husband’s nationality is very apparent.”
The woman looked a little annoyed with herself. She remained silent.
“May I not hope,” Bernadine begged, “that you will give me the pleasure of meeting you again?”
She hesitated for a moment.
“He does not leave me,” she replied. “I am not alone for five minutes during the day.”
Bernadine scribbled the name by which he was known in that locality, on a card, and passed it to her.
“I have rooms in St. James’s Street, quite close to here,” he said. “If you could come and have tea with me to-day or to-morrow, it would give me the utmost pleasure.”
She took the card, and crumpled it in her hand. All the time, though, she shook her head.
“Monsieur is very kind,” she answered. “I am afraid—I do not think that it would be possible. And now, if you please, you must go away. I am terrified lest my husband should return.”