controlled voice of a gentlewoman. The other voice was hard and sharp. It
could drive hard and cold across a desk, and bring businessmen to an
understanding that here was a mind, not a woman.

At present she used her latter tone. Vance Cornish came into a shivering
consciousness that she was sitting beside him. He turned his head slowly.
It was always a shock to come out of one of his pleasant dreams and see
that worn, hollow-eyed, impatient face.

"Are you forty-nine, Vance?"

"I'm not fifty, at least," he countered.

She remained imperturbable, looking him over. He had come to notice that
in the past half-dozen years his best smiles often failed to mellow her
expression. He felt that something disagreeable was coming.

"Why did Cornwall run away this morning? I hoped to take him on a trip."

"He had business to do."

His diversion had been a distinct failure, and had been turned against
him. For she went on: "Which leads to what I have to say. You're going
back to New York in a few days, I suppose?"

"No, my dear. I haven't been across the water for two years."

"Paris?"

"Brussels. A little less grace; a little more spirit."