“Is she afraid of you, monsieur?” asked the Lady.
“I can’t imagine Cora being afraid of any mere man.”
“Ah,” said the Lady; “then the American brothers are different from brothers in my country. I have a brother. I think he is the handsomest and bravest man in the world, and I love him. But I fear him too. I fear him very much.”
“Your own brother?”
The Lady was giving Cartaret some more omelette. Cartaret, holding his ready plate, saw her glance toward the rear of the room and saw her meet the eyes of Chitta, whose face was thrust around the screen.
“Yes,” said the Lady.
It struck Cartaret that she dropped her brother rather quickly. She talked of other things.
“Your name,” she said, “is English: the concierge gave it me. It is English, is it not?”
She had made enquiries about him, then: Cartaret liked that.
“My people were English, long ago,” he answered. He grew bold. He had been a fool not to make enquiries about her, but now he would make them at first hand. “I don’t know your name,” he said.