“Yes,” said Rosamund.
“It must be more than two years since I’ve seen her. She lives a great deal in Constantinople, you know. But she sometimes comes to London in the winter. It’s abominably cold in Constantinople in winter. There are perpetual winds from the Black Sea.”
“Yes, I know there are. Esme Darlington has told me about them.”
“Mrs. Clarke’s in London now.”
“Did you see her when you passed through?”
“No, but I want to see her to-morrow. Rose, I’m going to tell you something which nobody else must know. I was asked to keep it entirely to myself, but I refused. I was resolved to tell you, because I don’t believe in secrets between husband and wife—about their doings, I mean.” (Just then he had happened to think of Mrs. Clarke’s farewell telegram to him when he had sailed for South Africa.)
“I know how frank and sincere you always are, Dion,” she said gently.
“I try to be. You remember that party at Mrs. Chetwinde’s where you sang? You met Mrs. Clarke that night.”
“Of course I remember. We had quite an interesting talk.”
“She’s clever. Lord Brayfield was there, too, that night, a fair man.