"Have you—have you heard anything about us lately?" she began nervously, as they sat down, and she nodded at his battered old cigarette case, held interrogatively up to her.
"Yes," he answered abruptly, his manner changing. "I hear that Grisel has a string of pearls, and is growing very fond of her aged suitor."
"He's not an aged suitor, and you mustn't call him one.
"Well, then, her gay young spark. It doesn't really matter, and she's not really happy, and I know it, and so do you."
"Oh, Oliver, please don't make me unhappy about that. Things are bad enough without Grisel's coming to grief."
He pricked his ears. "What do you mean—things are bad enough? What's happened? I'm not going to worry you. I'm sorry——"
"It's about—it's about Mr. Walbridge. I don't quite know how to tell you."
Oliver looked hastily round the room. "Oh, no, he's not here. He went away yesterday morning."
"Gone away? Good heavens! Has he been losing money?"