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Van Ingen disengaged himself roughly. "We will not discuss Miss Grayson," he said a little hoarsely. "We will, if you please, keep strictly to business."

The count regarded him with an air of aggrieved reproach.

"You use words like bricks, my friend," he said gently. "You assault the intelligence. Ver' good. I retort in kind." His accent became slightly more pronounced. "You say: keep strictly to business. I say: mademoiselle is the subject of my business. She have told me that she and you are childhood mates—that you live in—how you say—the same bloc with her in New York—and that she have for you great regard, great affection—like a sister, perhaps. And it was this great regard which leads me to speak to you—to confide my hopes. It is my great wish to make Miss Grayson my wife," he concluded simply.

"You—you are engaged to her?" The universe seemed suddenly wheeling about Van Ingen's head, and his heart was beating thickly. It appeared, oddly enough, to be beating up in his head, smiting the drums of his ears like iron hammers, and pounding madly at his temples. He fought for composure, the hated ease of his companion. The count's words came to him dimly, as from a distance.