“You seem to forget, dear lady,” said I, “that Captain Vauvenarde is probably alive.”
“But I tell you I've lost sight of him altogether.”
“Are you quite so sure,” I asked, regaining my sanity by degrees, “that Captain Vauvenarde has lost sight of you?”
She turned quickly. “What do you mean?”
“You have given him no chance as yet of recovering his freedom.”
She passed her hand over her face, and sat down on the sofa. “Do you mean—divorce?”
“It's an ugly word, dear Madame Brandt,” said I, as gently as I could, “but you and I are strong people and needn't fear uttering it. Don't you think such a scandal would ruin Dale at the very beginning of his career?”
There was a short silence. I was glad to see she was feminine enough to twist and tear her handkerchief.
“What am I to do?” she asked at last. “I can't live this awful lonely life much longer. Sometimes I get the creeps.”
I might have given her the sound advice to find healthy occupation in training crocodiles to sit up and beg; but an idea which advanced thinkers might classify as more suburban was beginning to take shape in my mind.