The Inner Shrine. Basil King

      "But, Diane dear," Mrs. Eveleth interrupted, gently, "isn't it true that we owe it to George's memory to bear our troubles bravely?"

      "I'm ready to bear anything bravely—but this."

      "But isn't this the case, above all others, in which you and I should be unflinching? Doesn't any lack of courage on our parts imply a reflection on him?"

      "That's true," Diane said, stopping abruptly.

      "I don't know how far you honor George's memory—?"

      "George's memory? Why shouldn't I honor it?"

      "I didn't know. Some women—after what you've just discovered—"

      "I am not—some women! I am Diane Eveleth. Whatever George did I shared it, and I share it still."

      "Then you forgive him?"

      "Forgive him?—I?—forgive him? No! What have I to forgive? Anything he did he did for me and in order to have the more to give me—and I love him and honor him as I never did till now."

      Mrs. Eveleth rose and stood unsteadily beside her desk.

      "God bless you for saying that, Diane."

      "There's no reason why He should bless me for saying anything so obvious."

      "It isn't obvious to me, Diane; and you must let me bless you—bless you with the mother's blessing, which, I think, must be next to God's."

      Then opening her arms wide, she sobbed the one word "Come!" and they had at last the comfort, dear to women, of weeping in each other's arms.

      III

      In the private office of the great Franco-American banking-house of Van Tromp & Co., the partners, having finished their conference, were about to separate.

      "That's all, I think," said Mr. Grimston. He rose with a jerky movement, which gave him the appearance of a little figure shot out of a box.

      Mr. van Tromp remained seated at the broad, flat-topped desk, his head bent at an angle which gave Mr. Grimston a view of the tips of shaggy eyebrows, a broad nose, and that peculiar kind of protruding lower lip before which timid people quail. As there was no response, Mr. Grimston looked round vaguely on the sombre, handsome furnishings, fixing his gaze at last on the lithographed portrait of Mr. van Tromp senior, the founder of the house, hanging above the mantelpiece.

      "That's all, I think," Mr. Grimston repeated, raising his voice slightly in order to drown the rumble that came through the open windows from the rue Auber.

      Suddenly Mr. van Tromp looked up.

      "I've just had a letter," he said, in a tone indicating an entirely new order of discussion, "from a person who signs herself Diana—or is it Diane?—Eveleth."

      "Oh, Diane! She's written to you, has she?" came from Mr. Grimston, as his partner searched with short-sighted eyes for the letter in question among the papers on the desk.

      "You know her, then?"

      "Of course I know her. You ought to know her, too. You would, if you didn't shut yourself up in the office, away from the world."

      "N-no, I don't recall that I've ever met the lady. Ah, here's the note, just sit down a minute while I read it."

      Mr. Grimston shot back into his seat again, while Mr. van Tromp wiped his large, circular glasses.

      "'Dear Mr. van Tromp,' she begins, 'I am most anxious to talk to you on very important business, and would take it as a favor if you would let me call on Tuesday morning and see you very privately. Yours sincerely, Diane Eveleth.' That's all. Now, what do you make of it?"

      The straight smile, which was all the facial expression Mr. Grimston ever allowed himself, became visible between the lines of his closely clipped mustache and beard. He took his time before speaking, enjoying the knowledge that this was one of those social junctures in which he had his senior partner so conspicuously at a disadvantage.

      "It's a bad business, I'm afraid," he said, as though summing up rather than beginning.

      "What does the woman want with me?"

      "That, I fear, is painfully evident. You must have heard of the Eveleth smash a couple of months ago. Or—let me see!—I think it was just when you were in New York. No; you'd be likely not to hear of it. The Eveleths have so carefully cut their American acquaintance for so many years that they've created a kind of vacuum around themselves, out of which the noise of their doings doesn't easily penetrate. They belong to that class of American Parisians who pose for going only into French society."

      "I know the kind."

      "Mrs. Grimston could tell you all about them, of course. Equally at home as she is in the best French and American circles, she hears a great many things she'd rather not hear."

      "She needn't listen to 'em."

      "Unfortunately a woman in her position, with a daughter like Marion, is obliged to listen. But that's rather the end of the story—"

      "And I want the beginning, Grimston, if you don't mind. I want to know why this Diane should be after me."

      "She's after money," Mr. Grimston declared, bluntly. "She's after money, and you'd better let me manage her. It would save you the trouble of the refusal you'll be obliged to make."

      "Well, tell me about her and I'll see."

      Mr. Grimston stiffened himself in his chair and cleared his throat.

      "Diane Eveleth," he stated, with slow, significant emphasis, "is an extremely fascinating woman. She has probably turned more men round her little finger than any other woman in Paris."

      "Is that to her credit or her discredit?"

      "I don't want to say anything against Mrs. Eveleth," Mr. Grimston protested. "I wish she hadn't come near us at all. As it is, you must be forewarned."

      "I'm not particular about that, if you'll give me the facts."

      "That's not so easy. Where facts are so deucedly disagreeable, a fellow finds it hard to trot out any poor little woman in her weaknesses. I must make it clear beforehand that I don't want to say anything against her."

      "It's in confidence—privileged, as the lawyers say. I sha'n't think the worse of her—that is, not much."

      "Poor Diane," Mr. Grimston began again, sententiously, "is one of the bits of human wreckage that have drifted down to us from the pre-revolutionary days of French society. Her grandfather, the old Comte de la Ferronaise, belonged to that order of irreconcilable royalists who persist in dashing themselves to pieces against the rising wall of democracy. I remember him perfectly—a handsome old fellow, who had lost an arm in the Crimea. He used to do business with us when I was with Hargous in the rue de Provence. Having impoverished himself in a plot in favor of the Comte de Chambord, somewhere about 1872, he came utterly to grief in raising funds for the Boulanger craze, in the train of the Duchesse d'Uzès. He died shortly afterward, one of the last to break his heart over the hopeless Bourbon cause."

      "That, I understand you to say, was the grandfather of the young woman who is after money. She's a Frenchwoman, then?"

      "She's half French. That was her grandfather. The father was of much the same type, but a lighter weight. He married an Irish beauty, a Miss O'Hara, as poor as himself. He died young, I believe, and I'd lost sight of the lot, till this Mademoiselle Diane de la Ferronaise floated into view, some five years ago, in the train of the Nohant family. Her marriage to George Eveleth, which took place almost at once, was looked upon as an excellent thing all round. It rid the Nohants of a poor relation, and helped to establish the Eveleths in the heart of the old aristocracy. Since then Diane has been going the pace."

      "What pace?"

      "The pace the Eveleth money couldn't keep up with; the pace that made her the most-talked-of woman in a society where women are talked of more