“He is a stockbroker, named Frank Raynor, aged fifty.”
“And of course she married him for his money?”
“I suppose so. Also he partly owns the Greenway Theatre.”
“Pshaw . . . it’s a mere bargain.”
Hal was silent. She had rested her chin on her hands, and was now gazing steadily at the embers.
“Of course if he is not a gentleman, you will have to leave off seeing so much of her.”
“Not at all. She would need me all the more.”
“That is quite possible,” drily; “but you owe something to yourself and me.”
“I couldn’t owe failing a friend to any one. But he is a gentleman almost—a self-made one, and he doesn’t let you forget it.”
“Then you’ve seen him?”