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18 THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL
It was seven o’clock as I rose to go. But they pressed
me so eagerly to spend the evening with them that I
almost suspected them of being bored in each other’s com-
pany, although they had only been married for three
years, and Heaven had blessed their union with a dear
little girl. They told me that they expected a cousin,
and were anxious that I should meet her and tell them
what I thought of her.
While we were still talking, a letter was handed to the
Baron. He tore it open, read it hastily, and, with a
muttered exclamation, handed it to his wife.
" Incredible !
" she exclaimed, glancing at the contents,
and, after a questioning look at her husband, she
continued: "She’s my own cousin, you know, and her
parents won’t permit her to stay at our house because
people have been gossiping."
"It’s preposterous !
" exclaimed the Baron. " A mere
child, pretty, innocent, unhappy at home, who likes being
with us, her near relatives . . . and people gossiping I
Bah! "
Did a sceptic smile betray me ? His remark was fol-
lowed by a dead silence, a certain confusion, badly con-
cealed under an invitation to take a turn round the
garden.
I left after supper, about ten o’clock, and no sooner
had I crossed the threshold than I began to ponder on
the happenings of that eventful day.
In spite of every appearance of happiness, and notwith-
standing their evident affection, I felt convinced that my
friends harboured a very formidable skeleton in their
cupboard. Their wistful eyes, their fits of absent-mind-
edness, something unspoken, but felt, pointed to a hidden
grief, to secrets, the discovery of which I dreaded.
Why in the world, I asked myself, do they live so
quietly, voluntary exiles in a wretched suburb ? They
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