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."
"That's true," Diane admitted, ruefully, "but I might go away. I will go away, if you say so."
"You'll please yourself. I didn't send for you, and I'll not tell you to go. How old are you?"
It was Diane's turn to be surprised, but she brought out her age promptly.
"Twenty-four."
"You look older."
"That's because I've had so much trouble, perhaps. It's because we're in trouble that I've come to you, Mr. van Tromp."
"I dare say. I didn't suppose you'd come to ask me to dinner. There are not many days go by without some one expecting me to pull him out of the scrape he would never have got into if it hadn't been for his own fault."
"I'm afraid that's very like my case."