It was impossible now to contemplate Marion Grimston’s peril without a grave sense of the duties imposed by friendship.  Some people might stand by and see a girl wreck her happiness by giving her heart to an unworthy suitor, but Miss van Tromp was not among that number.  It was, in fact, one of those junctures at which all her good instincts prompted her to say, “I ought to go and tell her.”  As a patriotic spinster, she held decided views on the question of marriage between American heiresses and impecunious foreign noblemen—­and, in her eyes, all foreign noblemen were impecunious—­in any case; but to see Marion Grimston become the victim of her parents’ vulgar ambition gave to the subject a personal bearing which made her duty urgent.  If ever there was a moment when a goddess in a machine could feel justified in descending, for active intervention, it was now.  She had the less hesitation in doing so, owing to the fact that she had known Marion since her cradle; and between the two there had always existed the subtle tie which not seldom binds the widely diverse but essentially like-minded together.  Accordingly, on a bright May morning, within a few days of the last meeting between Derek Pruyn and Diane Eveleth, she sallied forth to the fashionable quarter where Mrs. Bayford dwelt, coming home, some two hours later, with a considerably extended knowledge of the possibilities inherent in human nature.

The tale Miss Lucilla told was that which had already been many times repeated, each narrator lending to it the color imparted by his own views of life.  As now set forth, it became the story of a girl sought in marriage by a man who has inflicted mortal wrong upon an innocent young woman.  With unconscious art Miss Lucilla placed Marion Grimston herself in the centre of the piece, making the subsidiary characters revolve around her.  This situation brought with it a double duty:  the one explicit in righting the oppressed, the other implicit—­for Miss Lucilla balked at putting it too plainly into words—­in punishing a wicked marquis.

The girl sat with head slightly bowed and rich color deepening.  If she showed emotion at all, it was in her haughty stillness, as though she voluntarily put all expression out of her face until the recital was ended.  The effect on Miss Lucilla, as they sat side by side on a sofa, was slightly disconcerting, so that she came to her conclusion lamely.

“Of course, my dear, I don’t know his side of the story, or what he may have to say in self-defence.  I’m only telling you what I’ve heard, and just as I heard it.”

“I dare say it’s quite right.”

The brevity and suggested cynicism of this reply produced in Miss Lucilla a little shock.

“Oh!  Then, you think—?”

“There would be nothing surprising in it.  It’s the sort of thing that’s always happening in Paris.  It’s one of the peculiarities of that society that you can never believe half the evil you hear of any one—­not even if it’s told you by the man himself.  I might go so far as to say that, when it’s told you by himself you’re least of all inclined to credit it.”