“I’m thinking of one woman—­one woman in particular.”

He threw back his head with fine confidence.

“I don’t know her.”

“It’s Diane Eveleth.  She says—­”

“I can imagine what she says.  If I were you, I wouldn’t pay it more attention than it deserves.”

“It deserves a good deal—­if it’s true.”

“Not from you, Mademoiselle.  It belongs to a region into which your thought shouldn’t enter.”

“My thought does enter it, I’m afraid.  In fact, I think of it so much that I’ve invited Mrs. Eveleth to come here this afternoon.  I hope you don’t mind meeting her?”

“Certainly not.  Why should I?” he demanded, with an air of conscious rectitude.

Miss Grimston touched a bell.

“Ask Mrs. Eveleth to come in,” she said to the footman who answered it.

As Diane entered she greeted Bienville with a slight inclination of the head, which he returned, bowing ceremoniously.

“I’ve begged Mrs. Eveleth to meet us,” Marion hastened to explain, “for a very special reason.”

“Then perhaps she will be good enough to tell me what it is,” Bienville said, with a look of courteous inquiry.

“Miss Grimston thought—­you might be able—­to help me.”

There was a catch in Diane’s voice as she spoke, but she mastered it, keeping her eyes on his, in the effort to be courageous.

“If there’s anything I can do—­” he began, allowing the rest of his sentence to be inferred.

He concealed his nervousness by placing a small gilded chair for Diane to sit on.  He himself took a chair a few feet away, seating himself sidewise, with his elbow supported on the back, in an easy attitude of attention.  Marion Grimston withdrew to the more distant part of the room, where, with her hands behind her, she stood leaning against the grand piano, with the bearing of one only indirectly, and yet intensely, concerned.  Bienville left the task of beginning to Diane.  In spite of his determination to be self-possessed, a trace of compunction was visible in his face as he contrasted the subdued little woman before him with the sparkling, insouciant creature to whom, two or three years ago, he had paid his inglorious court.

“I shall have to speak to you quite simply and frankly,” Diane began, with some hesitation, still keeping her eyes on his, “otherwise you wouldn’t understand me.”

“Quite so,” Bienville assented, politely.

“You may not have heard that since—­my—­my husband’s death, I have my own living to earn?”

“Yes; I did hear something of the kind.”

“I’ve had what people in my position call a good situation; but I have lost it.”

“Ah?  I’m sorry.”

“I thought you would be.  That’s why Miss Grimston asked me to tell you the reason.  She was sure you wouldn’t injure me—­knowingly.”

“Naturally.  I’m very much surprised that any one should think I’ve injured you at all.  To the best of my knowledge your name has not passed my lips for two years, at the least.  If it had it would only have been spoken—­with respect.”