“You—Edith!” I gasped, utterly taken aback.
“Yes,” she said in a strained voice. “Will you not welcome me? Your man said he expected you every moment, and asked me to await you. I ought not to have come here, to your chambers, I know, but being in Paris I could not resist.”
“I never dreamed that you were here. Is your aunt with you?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I have at last managed to persuade her to winter on the Italian Riviera.”
“Where?”
“At San Remo. Our vicar at Ryburgh stayed there for a month last winter, and gave us a most glowing account of it. Judging from the photographs, it must be a most delightful place—quite an earthly paradise for those wishing to avoid the English frost and fogs. Do you know it?”
“Yes,” I answered, seating myself in a chair opposite her. “I’ve been there once. It is, as you anticipate, perfectly charming. You will no doubt enjoy yourself immensely.”
Her lips compressed, and her eyes were fixed upon mine.
“I shall, I fear, not have much enjoyment,” she sighed sadly.
“Why?”