“Oh, certainly!” That had not been my difficulty.
“There is, of course,” she said wearily, “Mont St. Michel. But can you imagine anyone living in such a country?”
“Unless Fate set one here——” I began.
“I suppose that’s it,” she interrupted.
“You are going to make a stay here?”
“I am,” she answered slowly, “on my way to—I don’t know where.”
I was scrutinizing her closely now, for her manner seemed to witness more than indolence; irresolution, vacillation, discomfort, asserted their presence. I could not make her out, but her languid indifference appeared more assumed than real.
With another upward glance, she said:
“My name is Marie Delhasse.”
“It is a well-known name,” said I with a bow.
“You have heard of me?”
“Yes.”
“What?” she asked quickly, wheeling half-round and facing me.
“That you are a great singer,” I answered simply.
“Ah, I’m not all voice! What about me? A woman is more than an organ pipe. What about me?”
Her excitement contrasted with the langour she had displayed before.
“Nothing,” said I, wondering that she should ask a stranger such a question. She glanced at me for an instant. I threw my eyes up to the ceiling.
