“Who is she?” asked his son, without realising the bluntness of his question.
“Who is she?” repeated his father, raising his eyebrows slightly. “She is Mrs James Brood.”
“I—I beg your pardon,” stammered Frederic. “I didn't mean to put it in that way. Who was she? Where did you meet her, and—oh, I want to know all there is to tell, father. I've heard nothing. I am naturally curious.”
Brood stopped him with a gesture.
“She was Yvonne Lestrange before we were married, Mlle Lestrange; we met some time ago at the house of a mutual friend in Paris. I assure you her references are all that could be desired.” His tone was sarcastic.
Frederic flushed.
“I'm sorry I asked the questions, sir,” he said stiffly.
Brood suddenly laughed, a quiet laugh that had some trace of humour and a touch of compunction in it.
“I beg your pardon, Frederic. Come up to my room and smoke a cigar with me while I'm changing. I'll tell you about her. She is wonderful.”
To his own surprise, and to Frederic's astonishment, he linked his arm in the young man's and started toward the hall. Afterward he was to wonder even more than he wondered then what it was that created the sudden desire to atone for the hurt look he had brought into the eyes of Matilde's son and the odd longing to touch his arm gently.