“Oh yes. Didn’t I ever tell you about Helen Didier? She was one of my school-fellows at the convent near Tours, where I went for a year. She married a Frenchman.”
“And she lives in Paris?”
“Yes. I haven’t seen her for ages—scarcely once since we both married. But I took it into my head to write to her a week or two ago, and just fancy! You’ll be awfully interested. She knows Monsieur Fontenelle quite well. Her husband is a friend of his.”
Anne looked up rather quickly. “Really?”
“Yes. Isn’t it strange? I happened to mention him when I wrote to her, and she knew all about him. She would, naturally, as he’s such a great man; but it’s awfully exciting that he should be a friend, isn’t it?”
“What does Harry say?” asked Anne.
“Oh, he doesn’t mind. He says it will do me good to have a change.”
“He will miss you horribly, my dear.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “He’s so busy, you know. And when he’s at home, he’s always buried in his books. Besides, he knows I must have a change. My nerves get worse and worse, and I’m always having neuralgia. I sleep badly, too.”
“You mustn’t look so brilliant, then,” returned Anne, laughing. “You’ll be considered a fraud.”