even given them your name."

Nancy stared at him for a moment. Then, "There must be some extraordinary
mistake," she said quietly. "The Poulains must have thought you meant
someone else. My husband and I arrived, of course together, late last
night. At first Madame Poulain said she couldn't take us in as the hotel
was full. But at last she said that they could give us two small rooms.
They knew our name was Dampier, for Jack wrote to them from Marseilles. He
and I were only married three weeks ago: this is the end of our honeymoon.
My husband, who is an artist, is now at his studio. We're going to move
there in a day or two."

She spoke quite simply and straightforwardly, and the Senator felt oddly
relieved by her words.

He tried to remember exactly what had happened, what exactly the Poulains
had said, when he had gone into the big roomy kitchen which lay to the left
of the courtyard.

He had certainly been quite clear. That is, he had explained, in his very
good French, to Madame Poulain, that he came to inquire, on behalf of a
young English lady, whether her husband, a gentleman named Dampier, had
left any message for her. And Madame Poulain, coming across to him in a
rather mysterious manner, had said in a low voice that she feared the young
lady was toquee--i. e., not quite all right in her head--as, saving
Monsieur le Senateur's presence, English ladies so often were! At great
length she had gone on to explain that the young lady in question had
arrived very late the night before, and that seeing that she was so young
and pretty, and also that she knew so very little French, they had allowed
her, rather than turn her out, to occupy their own daughter's room, a room