"You are Miss Mowbray, are you not?" he asked, speaking slowly and steadying his voice with difficulty.
"Yes?"
"My name is Wimbourne. I think you know my brother.... I would like to talk to you, if I might. When will you be at liberty?"
"Why shouldn't we talk right here?" she said cheerfully. "If you'll sit down there.... You had better let me tend to your nails—they need it."
"Very well." James sat down. He felt his courage returning; her self-possession stimulated him. Not one shadow of a change of expression had passed over her face when he told her he was Harry's brother; her manner remained the perfection of professional cordiality. Well, if she could show nerve, he could, too.
She filled her bowl with warm water and arranged her instruments with perfect composure. When she was ready James surrendered his right hand.
"Miss Mowbray," he began at length, "as I understand the matter, you are suing my brother for breach of promise. Is that right?"
"It is."
"Well, I'm sorry. It's a bad business. Bad for you as well as for him, because you can't possibly win. Now, Miss Mowbray, I will be frank with you. You are not going to get that forty thousand dollars—your suit will not even get into court. I know that, but I don't want to have to go into the reasons why. I don't want scenes, I hate them; I want to make this interview as easy and as short as possible, so I will open it with an offer. I will give you five hundred dollars if you will agree to withdraw your suit and clear out of town, within a week. Do you accept?"
"I do not." Her smile was more than cordial now, there was pity in it. "Why do you suppose I took the trouble to sue for forty thousand dollars, if I would be content with five hundred, Mr. Wimbourne?"