“I am a blonde, which is, perhaps, the reason why I do not much admire fair men.”
“Oh! I see.”
“This was your husband, you say?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What was his name?”
“Guilliaume Nouvellini.”
“A Frenchman?”
“Yes. There’s where I got my French name, for I am not a French woman, though I did dance at the Theatre Française and the Gaieté.”
“How long ago did he marry you?” inquired Roma, with consummate self-command.
“Six years ago this New Year. And we were very happy for about another year. Then he died, when little Owlet was but three months old. Well, all that is past and gone these five years ago. One must not dwell on one’s past sorrows if one means to live and work in this world.”