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Presently she raised her voice.
“Virgil.”
A lapping noise in the bathroom was suspended.
“Yes, darling.”
“George Fulke says I’ve blighted his life.”
“So you have,” said Virgil.
“By not going to Dinard,” added Sarah.
“Serve him right,” said Virgil.
“He says he quite understood that ours was a marriage of convenience.”
“So it was,” said Virgil. “Great convenience.”
“But what shall I do?” said Sarah. “He says that his heart is ‘aching for a vivid, stimulating personality to fill the emptiness of life.’ ”
Her husband appeared, swathed in a bath dressing-gown.
“My dear,” he said, “it’s too easy. Take a fresh envelope and pass the letter on.”
“Who to?” said his wife.
Virgil fingered his chin.
“The trouble is,” he murmured, “I’m not quite sure of her address. I think it was Bloughbridge.”
MADELEINE
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MADELEINE
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It was upon the seventh day of September that Madeleine Peyre, of Ruffec, made a mistake. This was notable; first, because the lady was justly accounted wise, and, secondly, because, as errors go, the mistake was a bad one.