"I knew there was a woman--wife and children--what does it matter? I told you," she said. "But--oh God!" She smote her hands together hopelessly, fist into palm. "I never dreamed of anything like this."
"I am in a position to give you chapter and verse for it all," said I.
"Oh I know," she said, dejectedly, and the vivid flower that was Auriol, in a mood of dejection, suggested nothing more in the world than a drought-withered hybiscus--her colour had faded, the sweeping fulness of her drooped, her twenties caught the threatening facial lines of her forties--what can I say more? The wilting of a tropical bloom--that was her attitude--the sap and the life all gone.
"Oh I know. There's nothing vulgar about it. It goes back into the years. But still ..."
"Yes, yes, my dear," said I, quickly. "I understand."
We were alone now on the terrace. Far away, a waiter hung over the balustrade, listening to the band playing in the Park below. But for the noise of the music, all was still on the breathless August air. Presently she drew her palms over her face.
"I'm dog-tired."
"That abominable night journey," said I, sympathetically.
"I sat on a strapontin in the corridor, all night," she said.
"But, my dear, what madness!" I cried horrified, although in the war she had performed journeys compared with which this would be the luxury of travel. "Why didn't you book a coupé-lit, even a seat, beforehand?"