But never in his experience had Bobby been so puzzled. He simply could
not make out who or what she really was. This mystery, if anything,
deepened her attraction for him. Her name was Madame de Corantin, and in
answer to his inquiry she told him her Christian name was Francine, but
he had not so far dared to call her by it. She had an extraordinary
power of quietly checking any attempt on his part to make tender
advances. He could not himself have explained how it was done, but she
contrived to make him feel that any suggestion of familiarity would put
an end to their intercourse, and for nothing in the world would he have
risked it. Indeed, in his loose-endedness, he looked upon the whole
adventure as a special dispensation of Providence in his favour. Madame
de Corantin was to him like a beacon to a lonely wayfarer who has lost
his way in the night. To act as her escort and protector was, quite apart
from the deeper feeling she inspired, a new object in life for him.
Ever since their first meeting his depression had left him; his existence
had once more regained its savour.

She had frequently asked him to post letters for her, and sometimes to
call at the hotel for them; her correspondence seemed to be large, and
the envelopes bore the stamps of various countries, chiefly Russia. She
spoke English and French equally well, with a slight foreign accent,
which she explained by saying that she was Russian by birth, but had
married a French diplomatist, who died in Brazil; she said, too, that she
had travelled a great deal, and had spent much of her time in South
America, where she had been in the habit of speaking Spanish. Perhaps,
had Bobby's companion been less attractive, he might have been more
interested in these matters, but he was absorbed by her personality and
troubled little about anything else.