"It doesn't interest me."
"Thank you, mademoiselle! Thank you!" effusively exclaimed the artist. "It is no wonder—"
She turned on him a cold, haughty stare.
He was all confusion.
"Pardon! I—I— Monsieur Rutgers—" he stammered. "I—I— He—"
She left the shop, a vindictive look in her wonderful eyes. She hated H. R. Was she merely the advertised vulgarity of that unspeakable man whom her family so foolishly had not jailed? What had he made of her? She might not mind being called beautiful by the newspapers, but—
The photographer's liveried flunky on the sidewalk opened the door of her motor.
Nine pedestrians, two of them male, stopped.
"That's Grace Goodchild!" hissed one of the women, tensely.
"See her?" loudly asked another.