Then he turned.
"Billy," he said, "didn't I see you the other evening driving
towards the Hermitage?"
"Yes," said Prothero, and added, "that's it."
"You were with a lady."
"And she IS a lady," said Prothero, so deeply moved that his face
twitched as though he was going to weep.
"She's a Russian?"
"She had an English mother. Oh, you needn't stand there and look so
damned ironical! She's--she's a woman. She's a thing of
kindness. . . ."
He was too full to go on.
"Billy, old boy," said Benham, distressed, "I don't want to be
ironical--"
Prothero had got his voice again.
"You'd better know," he said, "you'd better know. She's one of
those women who live in this hotel."
"Live in this hotel!"
"On the fourth floor. Didn't you know? It's the way in most of
these big Russian hotels. They come down and sit about after lunch
and dinner. A woman with a yellow ticket. Oh! I don't care. I
don't care a rap. She's been kind to me; she's--she's dear to me.
How are you to understand? I shall stop in Moscow. I shall take
her to England.
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