"May I — may I speak to you for a minute?"
Mr. Lesbon hesitated fractionally. Then he smiled — which did not make him more beautiful.
"Yes, of course. Come in."
He fitted his key in the lock, and led the way through to his sitting-room. Shedding his hat and gloves, he inspected the girl more closely. She was tall and straight as a sapling, with an easy grace of carriage that was not lost on him. Her face was one of the loveliest he had ever seen; and his practised eye told him that the cornfield gold of her hair owed nothing to artifice.
"What is it, my dear?"
"It's… Oh, I don't know how to begin! I've got no right to come and see you, Mr. Lesbon, but — there wasn't any other way."
"Won't you sit down?"
One of Mr. Lesbon's few illusions was that women loved him for himself. He was a devotee of the more glutinous productions of the cinema, and he prided himself on his polished technique.
He offered her a cigarette, and sat on the arm of her chair.
"Tell me what's the trouble, and I'll see what we can do about it."