Who nursed you?"
"I had a trained nurse," said I.
"Wasn't Madame Brandt with you?"
"Yes," said I. "She was very good to me. In fact, I think I owe her my
life."
Hitherto the delicacy of the situation had caused me to refer to Lola
no more than was necessary, and in my narrative I had purposely left her
vague.
"That's a great debt," said Eleanor.
"It is, indeed."
"You're not the man to leave such a debt unpaid?"
"I try to repay it by giving Madame Brandt my devoted friendship."
Her eyes never wavered as they held mine.
"That's one of the things I wanted to know. Tell me something about
her."
I felt some surprise, as Eleanor was of a nature too proud for
curiosity.
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because she interests me intensely. Is she young?"
"About thirty-two."
"Good-looking?"
"She is a woman of remarkable personality."
"Describe her."
I tried, stumbled, and halted. The effort evoked in my mind a picture
of Lola lithe, seductive, exotic, with gold flecks in her dusky, melting
eyes, with strong shapely arms that had as yet only held me motherwise,
with her pantherine suggestion of tremendous strength in languorous
repose, with her lazy gestures and parted lips showing the wonderful
white even teeth, with all her fascination and charm--a picture of Lola
such as I had not seen since my emergence from the Valley--a picture of
Lola, generous, tender, wistful, strong, yielding, fragrant, lovable,
desirable, amorous--a picture of Lola which I could not put before this
other woman equally brave and straight, who looked at me composedly out
of her calm, blue eyes.
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