“God bless you for saying that, Diane.”

“There’s no reason why He should bless me for saying anything so obvious.”

“It isn’t obvious to me, Diane; and you must let me bless you—­bless you with the mother’s blessing, which, I think, must be next to God’s.”

Then opening her arms wide, she sobbed the one word “Come!” and they had at last the comfort, dear to women, of weeping in each other’s arms.

III

In the private office of the great Franco-American banking-house of Van Tromp & Co., the partners, having finished their conference, were about to separate.

“That’s all, I think,” said Mr. Grimston.  He rose with a jerky movement, which gave him the appearance of a little figure shot out of a box.

Mr. van Tromp remained seated at the broad, flat-topped desk, his head bent at an angle which gave Mr. Grimston a view of the tips of shaggy eyebrows, a broad nose, and that peculiar kind of protruding lower lip before which timid people quail.  As there was no response, Mr. Grimston looked round vaguely on the sombre, handsome furnishings, fixing his gaze at last on the lithographed portrait of Mr. van Tromp senior, the founder of the house, hanging above the mantelpiece.

“That’s all, I think,” Mr. Grimston repeated, raising his voice slightly in order to drown the rumble that came through the open windows from the rue Auber.

Suddenly Mr. van Tromp looked up.

“I’ve just had a letter,” he said, in a tone indicating an entirely new order of discussion, “from a person who signs herself Diana—­or is it Diane?—­Eveleth.”

“Oh, Diane!  She’s written to you, has she?” came from Mr. Grimston, as his partner searched with short-sighted eyes for the letter in question among the papers on the desk.

“You know her, then?”

“Of course I know her.  You ought to know her, too.  You would, if you didn’t shut yourself up in the office, away from the world.”

“N-no, I don’t recall that I’ve ever met the lady.  Ah, here’s the note, just sit down a minute while I read it.”

Mr. Grimston shot back into his seat again, while Mr. van Tromp wiped his large, circular glasses.

“‘Dear Mr. van Tromp,’ she begins, ’I am most anxious to talk to you on very important business, and would take it as a favor if you would let me call on Tuesday morning and see you very privately.  Yours sincerely, Diane Eveleth.’  That’s all.  Now, what do you make of it?”

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.