mournful list of her debtors. She made not the slightest demur, however,—even suggested that two hundred might be more convenient to him, but Grover declined. As usual he was waiting for a cheque from Boston.
Olga was still in her brooding mood when he called for her. "Ah, it's the prince," she said.
"Oscar will return at five-thirty," she announced when he was seated in the salon. "I've just received a telegram."
Grover stared sightlessly through the window as he might have stared through the window of the Marple nursery in the days when Emma Kittendorf used to snatch Rhoda away for her nap, leaving him alone with the toys that were useless so long as Rhoda wasn't there to share his enjoyment in them. The thought of Rhoda was prompted by a letter he had received from Lucerne stating that she was on her way to Paris. And he had a feverish desire to arm himself against Rhoda with the knowledge that Olga would succumb.
"That cancels our dinner on the river," he said, in a tone that implied the cancellation of so much else.
Olga had to lay in stores for her Scandinavian's big breakfasts, and together they set out for market. Then it was time to go to the train to meet Hellgren.
Not once had she mentioned Peñaverde, though he had undoubtedly called, for in the ashtray on the mantel of the salon there were two hollow paper ends of the Russian cigarettes he invariably smoked. Doubtless she refrained from speaking of his visit because
