Frau Schultz wore an imitation sealskin jacket, a new crape hat with broad strings tied under her chin, and thick grey woollen gloves. Felicia wondered, with not unpardonable vindictiveness, how many cracks would do her appreciable damage.
“I don't care a little bit about my complexion,” she replied stoutly, resolved, for the honour of her countrywomen, to face a blizzard, if called upon. “I have felt worse east winds than this in England.”
“Ah, your England! It is a wonderful place,” said Frau Schultz.
They walked along by the end of the Jardin Anglais, crossed the bridge and proceeded by the Quai du Mont Blanc in the direction of the Kursaal. Frau Schultz was evidently in an atrabiliar mood. Felicia began to be rather grateful to the bise, which does not favour conversation. But she had not reckoned with Frau Schultz's voice. As soon as it had found the right pitch, by means of desultory remarks, it triumphed over mere wind, and shrieked continuously.
“I asked you to come out because I wanted to talk to you.”
“Perhaps she prefers talking in a hurricane,” thought Felicia in comic desperation. But all she said was,—
“Oh?”
“Yes. You are so young and inexperienced that I have thought it my duty to advise you. Mme. Boccard is too busy. I am a mother. I brought up my Lottchen excellently, and she married last year. I am clearly the only one in the pension who knows what is suitable for a young girl and what isn't.”
Felicia looked at her in some astonishment from under the wind depressed hat brim.
“I am sure I am getting on very well.”