“In London, I think.”
“Then he is quite content that his wife should pose as the affianced bride of young Chetwode? Such an arrangement is certainly rather strange.”
“I know nothing of the whys and wherefores,” she replied. “I only know that she is already married, and I warn you not to lose your heart to her.”
“Well, what you have told me is curious, but I think—”
The remainder of the sentence died upon my lips, for at that moment Beryl burst gaily into the hall, dusty and flushed after cycling, exclaiming—
“We’ve had such an awfully jolly ride. But the others came along so slowly that Connie and I scorched home all the way from Monkton. How stifling it is to-night!” And she drew the pins from her hat, and, sinking into a chair, began fanning herself, while, at the same moment, her companion, Connie Knowles, a rather smart girl who was one of the party, also entered.
Hence our conversation was interrupted—a fact which for several reasons I much regretted. Yet from her words, it seemed plain that she did not know that I was actually her cousin’s husband. She knew Beryl’s secret, that she was married, but to whom she was unaware.
There is an old saying among the contadinelli of the Tuscan mountains, “Le donne dicono semure i vero; ma non lo dicono tutto intero.” Alas, that it is so true!
That same evening when, after dressing, I descended for dinner, I found Beryl in the study, scribbling a note which, having finished, she gave to the servant.
“Is he waiting?” she inquired.