“I am quite alone,” he said.
A tragic expression came into the Levantine’s face.
“But, then——” she began.
It was impossible for him to tell her about “Catherine.” He was, therefore, constrained to subterfuge.
“I—I was suddenly overtaken by—by influenza,” he said, in some confusion. “The doctor recommended change of air, of scene.”
“He suggested Algiers——”
“Mon Dieu! It is like poor mamma!”
“Precisely. Our constitutions are—are doubtless similar. I shall take this opportunity also of improving my knowledge of African manners and—and customs.”
A strange smile seemed to dawn for a second on Mademoiselle Verbena’s face, but it died instantaneously in a grimace of pain.
“My teeth make me bad,” she said. “Ah, monsieur, I must go below, to pray for poor mamma—” she paused, then softly added, “and for monsieur.”