She did.  It appeared that Vincent had telephoned her from down town just before she came out.

“Tiresome young man,” she said, twisting her shoulders.  “It seems there’s nothing against him.  His father was a doctor, his mother comes of decent people and is a respected reformer, the young man works for an ambitious new firm of brokers, who speak highly of him and give him a salary of $5000 a year.”

“The whole thing must be put a stop to,” said Mr. Lanley.

“Of course, of course,” said his daughter.  “But how?  I can’t forbid him the house because he’s just an average young man.”

“I don’t see why not, or at least on the ground that he’s not the husband you would choose for her.”

“I think the best way will be to let him come to the house,”—­she spoke with a sort of imperishable sweetness,—­“but to turn Mathilde gradually against him.”

“But how can you turn her against him?”

Adelaide looked very wistful.

“You don’t trust me,” she moaned.

“I only ask you how it can be done.”

“Oh, there are ways.  I made her perfectly hate one of them because he always said, ‘if you know what I mean.’  ’It’s a very fine day, Mrs. Farron, if you know what I mean.’  This young man must have some horrid trick like that, only I haven’t studied him yet.  Give me time.”

“It’s risky.”

Adelaide shook her head.

“Not really,” she said.  “These young fancies go as quickly as they come.  Do you remember the time you took me to West Point?  I had a passion for the adjutant.  I forgot him in a week.”

“You were only fifteen.”

“Mathilde is immature for her age.”

It was agreed between them, however, that Mr. Lanley, without authority, should go and look the situation over.  He had been trying to get the Waynes’ telephone since one o’clock.  He had been told at intervals of fifteen minutes by a resolutely cheerful central that their number did not answer.  Mr. Lanley hated people who did not answer their telephone.  Nor was he agreeably impressed by the four flights of stairs, or by the appearance of the servant who answered his ring.

“Won’t do, won’t do,” he kept repeating in his own mind.

He was shown into the sitting-room.  It was in shadow, for only a shaded reading-lamp was lighted, and his first impression was of four windows; they appeared like four square panels of dark blue, patterned with stars.  Then a figure rose to meet him—­a figure in blue draperies, with heavy braids wound around the head, and a low, resonant voice said, “I am Mrs. Wayne.”

As soon as he could he walked to the windows and looked out to the river and the long, lighted curves of the bridges, and beyond to Long Island, to just the ground where the Battle of Long Island had been fought—­a battle in which an ancestor of his had particularly distinguished himself.  He said something polite about the view.