“Of what nationality was Mrs. Trevor?” asked Mrs. Macallister, coming out of a brown study.
“She was an Italian,” answered Dick.
“No, Dick, I think you are mistaken. I am sure she was a Spaniard,” declared Peggy. “She spoke Spanish faultlessly.”
Mrs. Macallister shook her head. “That doesn’t prove anything. She spoke French like a Parisian, and also Italian fluently. The only language in which her accent was pronounced was English.”
“Beatrice told me her maiden name was de Beaupré, so perhaps she was of French descent,” continued Peggy. “Mr. Trevor met her in London. They were married six weeks later very quietly, and Beatrice was not told of the affair until after the ceremony.”
“Indeed!” Mrs. Macallister smiled grimly. “Marry in haste, repent at leisure.”
“But being a lawyer perhaps he just naturally pressed his suit quickly,” interrupted Dick, man-like, standing up for his sex. “I’d do the same, if you gave me half a chance,” he added in an ardent aside to Peggy, whose only answer was a vivid blush.
“Don’t talk to me of lawyers,” retorted Mrs. Macallister, who had unpleasant recollections of a bitter lawsuit with one of her relatives. “Their ways are past finding out. But I really must discover who Mrs. Trevor was before her marriage.”
“Why, Granny, I have just told you she was Mademoiselle de Beaupré.”
“The only de Beaupré I have ever heard of, Peggy, is Anne de Beaupré. And I imagine it is a far cry from Sainte Anne to Hélène whose very name suggests sulphur. Must you go?” she asked, as Dick rose.