The straight smile, which was all the facial expression Mr. Grimston
ever allowed himself, became visible between the lines of his closely
clipped mustache and beard. He took his time before speaking, enjoying
the knowledge that this was one of those social junctures in which he
had his senior partner so conspicuously at a disadvantage.

"It's a bad business, I'm afraid," he said, as though summing up rather
than beginning.

"What does the woman want with me?"

"That, I fear, is painfully evident. You must have heard of the Eveleth
smash a couple of months ago. Or--let me see!--I think it was just when
you were in New York. No; you'd be likely not to hear of it. The
Eveleths have so carefully cut their American acquaintance for so many
years that they've created a kind of vacuum around themselves, out of
which the noise of their doings doesn't easily penetrate. They belong to
that class of American Parisians who pose for going only into French
society."

"I know the kind."

"Mrs. Grimston could tell you all about them, of course. Equally at home
as she is in the best French and American circles, she hears a great
many things she'd rather not hear."

"She needn't listen to 'em."

"Unfortunately a woman in her position, with a daughter like Marion, is