Sometimes, mostly all the time, Gordon forgot that before the name of Heloise van Oynne was that magical prefix “Mrs.” Too nice-minded to discover, even by an indirect method, the extent of her indiscretion, Gordon had conceived in his mind a marriage between two persons diametrically unsuited one to the other. He fashioned Mr. van Oynne in the image of a gross, unimaginative business man, without soul, and saw dimly a struggle between opposing ideals; sullen fury or blank indifference on the man’s part, and, in the case of Heloise, a refined suffering and an infinite restlessness in her, until there came into her life the other half of her intellectual being. Which was Gordon. He looked out of the window again. Mr. Julius Superbus was deliberately charging a black pipe from a sealskin tobacco pouch. He seemed the kind of man who would stoop to the meanest methods to gain his ends. And a prurient brute who would think nothing of writing reports highly disparaging to a slim, aesthetic girl. A detective! In desperation he turned to Diana. “Diana, do you mind if I have The Study for a little while? I want to see a man.” She waved a cheery farewell as she disappeared through the door at the far end of the room. “Bring him in.” “Bring him in, sir?” Trenter was intrigued. Gordon repeated the order. “He’s not a gentleman, sir,” warned Trenter, desiring exculpation in advance. This was in case Mr. Superbus was even less of a gentleman than he thought him to be. Gordon has never any illusions on the subject. He said as much tersely, and Trenter went forth in a spirit of joyful anticipation, knowing that the nature of this interview would be repeated to him when next he met his friend. A wait, and then: “Mr. Superbus, sir,” said Trenter correctly. He bowed the visitor into the study, and withdrew. There was nothing in the appearance of Mr. Superbus that was suggestive of Roman culture at its zenith. He was very short, and waddled rather than walked. He was fat so that, if he were standing on two square feet of his own property, his waistcoat might have been arrested for trespass on neighbouring land. His face was very red and broad; he had a stubbly black moustache, which was obviously dyed; on his otherwise bald head, twenty-seven hairs were parted, thirteen on one side and fourteen on the other. He had often counted them. He stood, breathing audibly and twisting his hat in his blue hands. “Sit down, Mr. Superbus,” said Gordon awkwardly. “Trenter was telling me that you are--in fact, you have the distinction of being a Roman?” Mr. Superbus bent forward before he sat, as though to assure himself that his feet were all present and correct.