'And you, Pauline--' he said.
Pauline started as he pronounced the name. Her husband was the only man who had so addressed her since the old days at Marseilles, and, of course, she had not heard it since his death.
'And you, Pauline,' he continued, 'how well and handsome you look! How prosperous you seem!'
'Do I, Monsieur Wetter?' she said, with a characteristic shoulder-shrug, 'do I? It must be, then, because I have a light heart and a strong will of my own; for I have not been without my troubles, and heavy ones too. However, these are matters in which you could feel no possible interest, and with which I will not pretend to worry you.'
'I feel no interest in what concerns you?' said Mr. Wetter, with elevated eyebrows. 'Why, what do you imagine brought me to this house?'
'Information that the house was to let, and a desire to see if it would suit your purpose.'
'Suit my purpose?' repeated Mr. Wetter, with a half-sneering laugh. 'And what do you imagine my purpose to be, Pauline? I am a man of action and of business. It would not suit me to drone away my life in this rural solitude; my home must be in London, where my time is spent.'
'Perhaps you came to look at the house for a friend?' said Pauline.
'Wrong again,' he cried; 'my friends are like myself, men to whom this house, from its situation, would be absolutely useless. Now, what do you say if I were to tell you,' he said, leaning on the table, and bending towards her as he spoke, 'that the memory of the old days has never passed away from my mind, of the old days when Adolphe de Noailles and I ran neck and neck for the hand of the prettiest girl in Marseilles and when we were both beaten by the English escroc who took her away from us?'
'Monsieur Wetter,' said Pauline, holding up her hand, 'he was my husband.'