He sat back in an easy chair with a hand upon each of the elbows, and looked steadfastly into the fire. She had just this moment past told him that Monsieur Valade came to her after the tragedy, to the convent, from where he married her and brought her to England. She rose at once with a little exclamation, half of surprise, half of pleasure. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. “Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin. I was curious about that. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn’t it—wasn’t it rather in some respects—rather a lark? It’s one of my regrets for my lost youth. I had to go at a moment’s notice. It’s not like we’re getting married.
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