“It’s a wonderful city,” Walter said, with a sigh, as they strolled under the trees on the Prado. “The Jew, and the Turk, and the Infidel, and every other manner of man, has passed through it in his turn. Doesn’t it suggest all sorts of pictures to you, darling?”
“Yes,” she answered, a little absently; “only I was thinking of Monty and Catty.”
“We ought to wait a day, and go to see Monte Christo’s prison.”
“Yes”—but she was not very eager. Her thoughts were with her children. Walter was able to enjoy things, and to garnish them with the right memories. “I wonder if we shall find letters from home when we get to Monte Carlo?” she said.
“I hope so,” he answered gently, but he said no more about the associations of Marseille.
As they were leaving the big hotel on the Cannebière, the next morning, a lady entered it. She had evidently just arrived—her luggage was being carried in.
“I shall be here three nights,” they heard her say to the manageress. “I leave for England on Thursday morning.”
At the sound of her voice Florence turned round, but she had gone towards the staircase. The Hibberts had to catch their train, and could not wait.
“It was Mrs. North, Walter,” Florence said, as they drove to the station; “I wish I could have spoken to her. She looked so lonely entering that big hotel.”
“But there was no time,” he answered; “if we lost our train we should virtually lose a day.”