"I don't know," he said. "I've never met her."
"She is not your wife?"
"She is Cosgrave's wife."
It was evident that although the episode had been concluded less than three months before she had already almost forgotten it.
"Cosgrave? Ah oui, le cher petit Rufus? There now—did I not tell you? Didn't I 'ave reason? Tell me—'ow many babies 'ave 'e got?"
"They were married last month," Stonehouse observed.
"Ah—la la! But 'ow glad I am! I can see she is the right sort for 'im. A nice leetle girl. But first 'e 'ave to 'ave a good time—just to give 'im confidence. Now 'e be a ver' good boy—a leetle dull per'aps, but ver' good and 'appy. I would write and tell 'im 'ow glad I am—but per'aps better not, hein?"
She winked, and there was an irresistible drollery in the grimace that made his lips twitch. And yet she was shameless—abominable.
"The ten minutes are almost up," he said, "and I suppose you came here to consult me."
He knew that she had not. She had come because he was a tantalizing object, because she could not credit his invincibility, which was a challenge to her. She laughed, shrugging her shoulders.