“Oh, quite!”

“But—­”

Mr. Grimston pronounced the word with a hard-drawn breath, and presented the appearance of a man who restrains himself.  He was still endeavoring to maintain this attitude of repression when a discreet tap on the door called from Mr. van Tromp a gruff “Come in.”  A young man entered with a card.

“She’s here,” the banker grunted, reading the name.

Mr. Grimston shot up again.

“Better let me see her,” he insisted, in a warning tone.

“No, no.  I’ll have a look at her myself.  Bring the lady in,” he added, to the young man in waiting.

“Then I’ll skip,” said Mr. Grimston, suiting the action to the word by disappearing in one direction as Diane entered from another.

Mr. van Tromp rose heavily, and surveyed her as she crossed the floor toward him.  He had been expecting some such seductive French beauty as he had occasionally seen on the stage on the rare occasions when he went to a play; so that the trimness of this little figure in widow’s dress, with white bands and cuffs, after the English fashion, somewhat disconcerted him.  Unaccustomed to the ways of banks, Diane half offered her hand, but, as he was on his guard against taking it, she stood still before him.

“Mrs. Eveleth, I believe,” he said, when he had surveyed her well.  “Have the goodness to sit down, and tell me what I can do for you.”

Diane took the seat he indicated, which left a discreet space between them.  The heavy black satchel she carried she placed on the floor beside her.  When she raised her veil, Mr. van Tromp observed to himself that the pale face, touching in expression, and the brown eyes, in which there seemed to lurk a gentle reproach against the world for having treated her so badly, were exactly what he would have expected in a woman coming to borrow money.

“I’ve come to you, Mr. van Tromp,” Diane began, timidly, “because I thought that perhaps—­you might know—­who I am.”

“I don’t know anything at all about you,” was the not encouraging response.

“Of course there’s no reason why you should—­” Diane hastened to say, apologetically.

“None whatever,” he assured her.

“Only that a good many people do know us—­”

“I dare say.  I haven’t the honor to be among the number.”

“And I thought that possibly—­just possibly—­you might be predisposed in my favor.”

“A banker is never predisposed in favor of any one—­not even his own flesh and blood.”

“I didn’t know that,” Diane persisted, bravely, “otherwise I might just as well have gone to anybody else.”

“Just as well.”

“Would you like me to go now?”

The question took him by surprise, and before replying he looked at her again with queer, bulgy eyes peering through big circular glasses, in a way that made Diane think of an ogre in a fairy tale.

“You’re not here for what I like,” he said at last, “but for what you want yourself.”