"Ah, Palmyre! Palmyre! What you love and hope to love you because his heart keep itself free, he is loving another!"
"Qui ci ça, Miché?"
Frowenfeld was loth to repeat. She had understood, as her face showed; but she dared not believe. He made it shorter:
"He means that Honoré Grandissime loves another woman."
"'Tis a lie!" she exclaimed, a better command of English coming with the momentary loss of restraint.
The apothecary thought a moment and then decided to speak.
"I do not think so," he quietly said.
"'Ow you know dat?"
She, too, spoke quietly, but under a fearful strain. She had thrown herself forward, but, as she spoke, forced herself back into her seat.
"He told me so himself."