Louise's cheeks reddened slightly, as she replied with affected carelessness: "If he doesn't care to write, I shall trouble no longer."
"He's still abroad, is he not? The last I heard of him was that he was at Monte Carlo with that Ranscomb girl."
Mention of Dorise Ranscomb caused the girl's cheeks to colour more deeply.
"Yes," she said, "I heard that also."
"You don't seem to care very much, Louise," remarked the woman. "And yet, he's such an awfully nice young fellow."
"You've said that dozens of times before," was Louise's abrupt reply.
"And I mean it. You could do a lot worse than to marry him, remember, though he is a bit hard-up nowadays. But things with him will right themselves before long."
"Why do you suggest that?" asked the girl resentfully.
"Well--because, my dear, I know that you are very fond of him," the woman laughed. "Now, you can't deny it--can you?"
The girl, who had travelled so widely ever since she had left school, drew a deep breath and, turning her head, gazed blankly out of the window again.
What Mrs. Bond had said was her secret. She was very fond of Hugh. They had not met very often, but he had attracted her--a fact of which both Benton and his female accomplice were well aware.
"You don't reply," laughed the woman for whom the Paris Surete was searching everywhere; "but your face betrays the truth, my dear. Don't worry," she added in a tone of sympathy. "No doubt he'll write as soon as he is back in England. Personally, I don't believe he really cares a rap for the Ranscomb girl. It's only a matter of money--and Dorise has plenty."
"I don't wish to hear anything about Mr. Henfrey's love affairs!" cried the girl petulantly. "I tell you that they do not interest me."
"Because you are piqued that he does not write, child. Ah, dear, I know!" she laughed, as the girl left the room.
A quarter of an hour later Louise was seated in the car, while Mead drove her along the broad highway over the Hog's Back into Guildford. The morning was delightful, the trees wore their spring green, and all along in the fields, as they went over the high ridge, the larks were singing gaily the music of a glad morning of the English spring, and the view spread wide on either side.
Life in Surrey was, she found, much preferable to that on the Continent. True, in the Rue Racine they had entertained a great deal, and she had, during the war, met many very pleasant young English and American officers; but the sudden journey to Switzerland, then on into Italy, and across to New York, had been a whirl of excitement. Mrs. Maxwell had changed her name several times, because she said that she did not want her divorced husband, a ne'er-do-well, to know of her whereabouts. He was for ever molesting her, she had told Louise, and for that reason she had passed in different names.