"I've come to see you about Ned," she volunteered as de Grandin lit her cigarette and she sent a nervous smoke-stream gushing from between red, trembling lips. "He—he's trying to run out on me!"
"You mean Ned Minton?" I asked, wondering what a middle-aged physician could prescribe for wandering Romeos.
"I certainly do mean Ned Minton," she replied, "and I mean business, too. The darn, romantic fool!"
De Grandin's slender brows arched upward till they nearly met the beige-blond hair that slanted sleekly backward from his forehead. "Pardonnez-moi," he murmured. "Did I understand correctly, Mademoiselle? Your amoureux—how do you say him?—sweetheart?—has shown a disposition toward unfaithfulness, yet you accuse him of romanticism?"
"He's not unfaithful, that's the worst of it. He's faithful as Tristan and the chevalier Bayard lumped together, sans peur et sans reproche, you know. Says we can't get married, 'cause——"
"Just a moment, dear," I interrupted as I felt my indignation mounting. "D'ye mean the miserable young puppy cheated, and now wants to welch——"
er blue eyes widened, then the little laughter-wrinkles formed around them. "You dear old mid-Victorian!" she broke in. "No, he ain't done wrong by our Nell, and I'm not asking you to take your shotgun down and force him to make me an honest woman. Suppose we start at the beginning: then we'll get things straight.
"You assisted at both our débuts, I've been told; you've known Ned and me since we were a second old apiece, haven't you?"