"Why? What can it say?"
"'Mr. Claude Heath, the rising young composer, who recently married the beautiful Miss Charmian Mansfield, of Berkeley Square, has just rented and furnished elaborately a magnificent studio in Renwick Place, Chelsea. Exquisite Persian rugs strew the floor——'"
Claude stopped, and with an abrupt movement tore the cuttings to pieces and threw them on the carpet.
"What can it mean? Who on earth——? Charmian, do you know anything of this?"
"Oh," she said, with a sort of earnest disgust, mingled with surprise, "it must be that dreadful Miss Gretch!"
"Dreadful Miss Gretch! I never heard of her. Who is she?"
"At Adelaide Shiffney's the other night Susan Fleet introduced me to a Miss Gretch. I believe she sometimes writes, for papers or something. I had a little talk with her while I was waiting for Susan to come back."
"Did you tell her about the studio?"
"Let me see! Did I? Yes, I believe I did say something. You see, Claude, it was the night of——"
"I know it was. But how could you——?"