Ian startled, dropped his pen and swung himself around in his pivot chair.
"What about? Tony?"—for it was to this diminutive that Mildred had reduced the flowing syllables of Antonio.
"No, your cousin, Maxwell Davison."
Now, Ian liked his cousin well enough, but by no means as well as he liked Tony.
"About Max!" he exclaimed, relieved. "What's happened to him?"
"Nothing—but oh, Ian! I—hate even to speak of such a thing—"
"Never mind. Just tell me what it is."
"I was on the river with him this afternoon, and he—he made love to me."
The lines of Ian's face suddenly hardened.
"Did he?" he returned, significantly, playing with a paper-knife. Then, after a pause: "I'm awfully sorry, Milly. I'd no idea he was such a cad."