“My hat?”
“It carries Monsieur’s name.”
“Then it isn’t mine, sir.”
“Mais comment donc——?”
“I tell you it isn’t mine, sir.”
“Don’t be angry, Simeon,” his wife pleaded between her sobs.
The exit of the official was immediately followed by another summons for admission, even more imperative. A lady entered and handed to Simeon a card: “Miss Eve Fincastle. The Morning Journal.”
“My paper——” she began.
“You wish to know if I exist, madam!” said Simeon.
“I——” Miss Fincastle caught sight of Cecil Thorold, paused, and bowed stiffly. Cecil bowed; he also blushed.