“We are immensely concerned about Mina,” Mrs. Grove went on. “You see, with our son killed in the Lafayette Escadrille early in the war, practically she has been our only child. She is a daughter of a cousin of William's. Mina, I must admit, has become very difficult; I suppose because of her genius. She is perfectly amenable about everything in the world, until her mind gets set, like concrete, and then she is out of reach. Tell me a little about Mr. and Mrs. Morris.” Lee Randon spoke sharply for a minute or two, and a frown gathered on his hearer's brow. “Why,” she observed, “it is worse than I had hoped. But I should have guessed from the name--Peyton Morris. I am very sorry; you are fond of her, of Claire, that is evident.” “I should not have come here for any other reason,” he admitted. “I am not much of a meddler: it is so dangerous for everyone concerned. Then it might be that this was the best for all three of them.” “What a curious, contradictory thing for you to say,” she commented, studying him. “You mustn't let William hear that; he's far worse than I am.” “I don't mean we can proceed from that attitude,” Lee explained, “it was a sort of digression. I want to do whatever is possible to break it up; yes, purely for Claire.” “I hope we may succeed.” Her voice showed doubt. “William isn't always tactful, and I've told him again and again he's taking the wrong tone with Mina. What a pity the Morrises have turned out thoroughly nice--don't tell me your Claire didn't curse me, I know these girls--it is so much easier to deal with vulgar people. I can see now what it was in the young man that captured Mina, she'd like that type--the masculine with an air of fine linen.” The tea-table was rolled up to them. “If you would rather have Scotch or rye it's here,” she informed him. “But even the tea, you'll notice, is in a glass with rum; positively, soon no one will look at soup unless it's served as a highball.” Lee Randon did prefer Scotch: none better, he discovered, was to be imagined; the ice was frozen into precisely the right size; and the cigars before him, a special Corona, the Shepheard's Hotel cigarettes, carried the luxury of comfort to its last perfection. Mrs. Grove smoked in an abstracted long-accustomed manner. “Well,” she demanded, “what is there we can do?” “I rather trusted you to find that.” “How can I? What hold have we on her? Mina is getting this nonsensical weekly sum; her contract runs for two years yet; and then it will be worse. Outrageous! I tell her she isn't worth it. And, now, this tiresome Morris has money, too; and you say he's as bad as Mina. Have you talked to her about Mrs. Morris? Mina is strangely sensitive, and, if you can find it, has a very tender heart.” “I might do that over here,” he suggested. “In Eastlake it wasn't possible. You've discouraged me, though; I suppose I had the idea that you could lock her up on bread and water.”