“That must have been a week—or nearly—since she’d heard about Mademoiselle Lucie from the two women. Had you heard anything from her in the interval?”
“Yes, I’d had two letters from her, addressed to our works and forwarded on—I had to leave an address at the works—saying they missed me at the Villa and asking when I expected to be back; but I hadn’t answered them. I didn’t exactly know what to say, you see, so I said nothing. As a matter of fact, I felt bored at the idea of going back; but I couldn’t have said that, could I?”
“Certainly not. And so—at last—she had to come?”
“What do you mean by ‘at last’? And why had she to come?”
There was in my mind a vivid imagining of what that week had been to Lady Dundrannan; a week of irresolution and indecision, of pride struggling against her old jealousy, her old memory of defeat and shame. To seem to take any interest in the woman was beneath her; yet her interest in the woman was intense. And if an encounter could seem quite accidental——? Why shouldn’t it? Just the two women’s report—no hasty appearance after it—quite a natural thing to motor over to Cimiez for lunch! And, given that the encounter was quite accidental, it admitted no interest; it would satisfy curiosity; she had the power of turning it into a triumph. And Godfrey—her _protégé_, her property—had been missing a week and had left two letters unanswered. My own talk with her—just before I came away—returned to my mind.
“I suppose that Lady Eunice—or Mrs. Forrester—kept on worrying her. Was that it?” My attempt to explain away the form of my question was not very convincing. Godfrey disposed of it unceremoniously.
“If you were really such a damned fool as you’re trying to appear, I shouldn’t be here talking to you,” he remarked. “There was more in it than that of course.”
“Well, tell me what happened. We can discuss it afterwards,” I suggested.
“Just what happened? All right—and soon told. Nina saw me walking up and down, smoking. She smiled what they call brightly; so did Lady Eunice. One or other of them pulled the string, I suppose; the car stopped; the chauffeur lay back in his seat in the resigned sort of way those chaps have when they’re stopped for some silly reason or other—most reasons do seem to appear silly to them, don’t they? Really superior chauffeurs, I mean, such as Nina’s bound to have. I took off my hat and went up to the car. ‘Why, it’s Mr. Frost!’ said Eunice, just as surprised as you’d have expected her to be.”