"'But you know,' I protested, 'you know I'm only a sort of friend.'
"'Oh, yes!' again with the dwelling accent. 'Of course, a friend. And she talk and talk and tell me all about you and say to me: 'No, he'll never come. I'll never see him again. Forget it,' and then she sits and looks at the sea for an hour. And when I say to her: 'Why don't you write?' she say, 'I have,' and is all sad and miserable.'
"'But she didn't tell me this when she wrote.'
"'No?' said the girl with a faintly sarcastic inflection. 'Well, she wouldn't ... I suppose.'
"'Besides which,' I went on, 'she gave me to understand she was living with this Monsieur Kinaitsky, so....'
"'He supports her,' she said, 'she's very lucky.'
"'How?' I asked, astonished at this peculiar sentiment.
"'Because he never goes near her for, oh, since this three months. He's married, you know. You'll pass his house in the boat, only there's a fog on the Gulf to-night. And he supports four others. Very rich. And so long as she stays round she can do what she likes.'
"'Would you mind telling me, my dear,' I said, 'why this gentleman supports all these ... er ... strangers?' She shrugged her shoulders and took my arm daintily.
"'Because he's rich, I suppose,' she remarked. 'They all do it here. In England—no?' she added in inquiry.