Just as the pair were passing the entrance to the Casino, a stout, middle-aged, very smartly-dressed woman halted and spoke to Sylvia.
“Well, Madame Claudet!” the girl cried. “Why—how long have you been over in Europe?”
“About four months,” she replied, speaking broken English with a strong French accent. “My husband died, you know.”
“What?” exclaimed Sylvia. “Mr. Claudet dead!”
And for the first time she noticed that the lady was in mourning.
“He died of heart failure, suddenly—in the street in New York,” the rather handsome widow said. Then when Sylvia had expressed her condolence, she turned and introduced Geoffrey.
“I’m at the Hôtel des Terrasses,” Madame Claudet said to the girl. “Where are you staying?”
Sylvia told her, and begged her to call upon her mother that afternoon.
“We shall be so very delighted to see you again,” she added. “Mother has often spoken of you, and recalled our gay days together at Palm Beach.”
Madame promised to call, and then, when Sylvia and Geoffrey walked on, the girl said: