“Yes,” he said, looking at her in wonder. “But I have not yet told Abdallah Jack.”
The Levantine looked gently sad again.
“Ah,” she said in her usual pathetic voice, “how my heart bleeds for this poor Ouled. By the way, what is her name?”
“Aishoush.”
“She is beautiful?”
“I hardly know. She was so painted, so tattooed, so very—so very different from Mrs. Eustace Greyne.”
“How sad! How terrible! Ah, but you must long for the dear bonnet strings of madame?”
Did he? As she spoke Mr. Greyne asked himself the question. Shocked as he was, fatigued by his researches, did he wish that he were back again in Belgrave Square, drinking barley water, pasting notices of his wife’s achievements into the new album, listening while she read aloud from the manuscript of her latest novel? He wondered, and—how strange, how almost terrible—he was not sure.
“Is it not so?” murmured Mademoiselle Verbena.
“Naturally I miss my beloved wife,” said Mr. Greyne with a certain awkwardness. “How is your poor, dear mother?”