I think you'd want to be told. Connie's here—with a man of course—and stopping at this hotel. Miss McPherson wheels me about in a chair on my goodish days, and I came upon them suddenly in the grounds this morning. Connie passed by without speaking, but I'm certain she knew me. She looks the unhappiest woman on God's earth. Later I sent Miss McPherson to make inquiries, and it seems they call themselves Count and Countess Chiozzi. They may be for all I know. At any rate, he looks a dirty little cad. I'll try to speak to her, for I think you would like me to. I will leave this letter open for a day or two, in case I do.
"Next day.
"I spoke to her to-day in the garden. She was alone. I said, 'Connie, don't you know me?' She went a queer color, I thought, and said, 'Yes, you're Mr. de Lisle.' I said, 'You knew me yesterday,' and she admitted it. I was in my bath-chair (beastly thing!) and I sent Miss McPherson away. Then I said, 'Well, Connie, I see you're the Countess Chiozzi now. Are you in Cannes for the winter?' She said she supposed she was; that Cannes did as well as another place. She asked me if I'd been in England lately, and when I said, 'Not in twenty years,' she exclaimed,