"So certain was I," she said, "that you were hiding things from me, that when I saw him this morning at your table, I was scarcely surprised."
"My dear Auriol," said I, when she had finished the psychological sketch of her flight from Paris, "I think the man who unlearned most about women as the years went on, was Methuselah."
"A woman only puts two and two together and makes it five. It's as simple as that."
"No," said I, "the damnable complex mystery of it, to a man's mind, is that five should be the right answer."
She dismissed the general proposition with a shrug.
"Well, there it is. I was miserable--I've been miserable for months--I was hung up in Paris. I had this impulse, intuition--call it what you like. I came--I saw--and I wish to goodness I hadn't!"
"I wasn't so wrong after all, then," I suggested mildly.
She laughed, this time mirthlessly. "I should have taken it for a warning. Blue Beard's chamber...."
We were silent for a while. The waiters came scurrying down with trays and cloths and cups to set the little tables for tea. The western sun had burst below the awning and flooded half the length of the terrace with light leaving us by the wall just a strip of shade.
I said as gently as I could: "When you two parted in April, I thought you recognized it as final."