He had been able to recognize her only because, leading a solitary, monotonous life, his impressions of the past remained clear and distinct, refreshed from time to time by long hours of brooding remembering, and never blotted out under new impressions, superimposed. She, on the other hand, had lived so rapidly, had seen so many men pass through her life, that she could not remember Robledo. To do so she would have to make a determined effort of attention. And besides Robledo too had changed with the years. Yet, with the never quite dormant instinct of the professional courtesan, who, living by the chase, develops a kind of tactual memory, she too felt that somewhere this man had sat near her before.
“I can’t remember where we have met,” she said, with a reminiscence of the marquesa’s manners. “I have passed through so many countries and I have known so many men ...!”
CHAPTER XX
ROBLEDO looked sharply at her, and asked brusquely, “What is your name?”
But, her eyes on the whiskey bottle, she was thinking of something else, and she replied absently,
“My name is Blanca, though some of the people around here call me La marquesa. But ... will you buy me another drink?... Because, if we drop in at my house later, there won’t be any whiskey like this there. We will go there, won’t we?... It’s quite near ... though of course you might prefer the hotel?”
She took his silence to be consent and hastened to pour out a third glassful, which she drank with as much avidity as she had the others.
But Robledo interrupted her.
“Your name is Elena, and if people call you La marquesa it is because someone who knew you when you were married to an Italian marqués recognized you.”
His words startled her so much that she removed the glass from her lips, and looked with wide eyes at Robledo.