“Monsieur Greyne,” said the proprietor, “who is living here for the winter?” 4
“Mr. Eustace Greyne,” murmured the great novelist, grasping her bonnet with both hands.
The maître d’hôtel drew nearer.
“Madame wishes to see Monsieur Greyne?” he asked.
“I do—at once.”
A blessed consciousness of Mother Earth was gradually beginning to steal over her. She even strove feebly to sit up on her chair, a German-Swiss porter of enormous size assisting her.
“But Monsieur Greyne is out.”
“Out?”
“Yes, madame. Monsieur Greyne is always out at night.”
The eyes of the little chasseur who knew no better began to twinkle. Mrs. Forbes gave a slight cough. Tears filled the novelist’s eyes.