She looked up, and her eyes drooped 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 at 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."
"Your husband is very jealous?" Bernadine whispered softly.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Partly jealous and partly he has the most terrible distaste for acquaintances. He will not speak to strangers himself, or suffer me to do so. It is sometimes—oh! it is sometimes very triste!"
"Madame has my sympathy," Bernadine assured her. "It is an impossible life—this. No husband should be so exacting."
She looked at him with her round blue eyes, a touch of added colour in her cheeks.
"If one could but cure him!" she murmured.