Daphne resumed her seat, her small hands fidgeting on her parasol.
"I wished to come and consult with you, Mr. French. I had heard a distressing account of—of Roger, from a friend in America."
"I see," said French, on whom a sudden light dawned. "You met Boyson at Niagara—that I knew—and you are here because of what he said to you?"
"Yes, partly." The speaker looked round the room, biting her lip, and French observed her for a moment. He remembered the foreign vivacity and dash, the wilful grace of her youth, and marvelled at her stiffened, pretentious air, her loss of charm. Instinctively the saint in him knew from the mere look of her that she had been feeding herself on egotisms and falsehoods, and his heart hardened. Daphne resumed:
"If Captain Boyson has given you an account of our interview, Mr. French, it was probably a one-sided one. However, that is not the point. He did distress me very much by his account, which I gather came from you—of—of Roger, and although, of course, it is a very awkward matter for me to move in, I still felt impelled for old times' sake to come over and see whether I could not help you—and his other friends—and, of course, his mother——"
"His mother is out of the question," interrupted French. "She is, I am sorry to say, a helpless invalid."
"Is it really as bad as that? I hoped for better news. Then I apply to you—to you chiefly. Is there anything that I could do to assist you, or others, to——"
"To save him?" French put in the words as she hesitated.
Daphne was silent.
"What is your idea?" asked French, after a moment. "You heard, I presume, from Captain Boyson that my wife and I were extremely anxious about Roger's ways and habits; that we cannot induce him, or, at any rate, we have not yet been able to induce him, to give up drinking; that his health is extremely bad, and that we are sometimes afraid that there is now some secret in his life of which he is ashamed?"