It was just a shabby, stupid, furtive business that began between us. After dinner Ann Veronica went into the drawing-room with Miss Stanley, and her father went up to his den for his pipe and pensive petrography. “Hotel Ritz,” he said mechanically to the coachman. Anna looked at her curiously, and with sinking heart. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. ’ The breathy laugh came, and Madame Valade abandoned her fan.
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