"And how is the book?" she asked presently—"It should be finished—I am told that your work is intermittent—."
My mind jumped to Maurice as the connecting link—the Duchesse of course must have seen him—but I myself have seen very little of Maurice lately—how did he know my work was intermittent—?
"Maurice told you?" I said.
"Maurice?"—her once lovely eyes opened wide—she has a habit of screwing them up sometimes when she takes off her glasses.—"Do you suppose I have been on a partie de plaisir, my son—that I should have encountered Maurice—!"
I dared not ask who was her informant—.
"Yes, I work for several days in succession, and then I have no ideas. It is a pretty poor performance anyway—and is not likely to find a publisher."
"You are content with your Secretary?"
This was said with an air of complete indifference. There was no meaning in it of the kind Madame de Clerté would have instilled into the tone.
"Yes—she is wonderfully diligent—it is impossible to dislodge her for a moment from her work. She thinks me a poor creature I expect."
The Duchesse's eyes, half closed now, were watching me keenly—.