It was a relief, therefore, when the telephone rang and Annette van Elstine asked me to come and have tea with her. I knew that Annette was not craving to see me merely as her cousin; and as my cousin I could have waited patiently for the pleasure of seeing her; but with her scent for drama and her insatiable curiosity she would raise the issues of which I wanted to talk even if I got no good from it. I found her as little changed as if Time had not passed nor War dropped his bomb on the world. Annette’s smartness, as I have already told you, was difficult to define. It was not in looks or dress or manner of living or gifts of intellect. If I could ascribe it to a cause I should put it down as authority of position combined with the possession of a great many personal secrets. She knew your intimate history for the reason that she asked you intimate questions. Authority of position enabled her to do this—or at least she acted as if it did—with the right of a cross-examiner to probe the truth in court. She could convey the impression that her interest in your affairs was an honor—as if a queen were to put her royal finger in your family pie—so that quite artlessly you unlocked your heart to her. Other people’s unlocked hearts were her kingdom, since, as far as I could see, she had nothing in her own. Also, as far as I could see, she wore the same tea-gown I had always seen her in; she sat in the same chair in front of the same fire; she had before her the same tea equipage; she might have been pouring the same tea. The transition from the necessary questions as to my personal experiences and wounds to that of the exact relations between Mrs. Hartlepool and Gen. Lord Birkenhead was an easy one. Disappointed that I had spent two years at the front and had heard nothing of the delicate situation between these distinguished persons, of which an amazing mass of contradictory detail had reached certain circles in New York, she turned the conversation on what was really the matter in hand. “So you came over on the same boat as Regina?” Unable to deny this statement, I admitted its truth. The dusky ripples played over Annette’s round features, giving them a somber vivacity. “Did she tell you anything?” “Yes; a good many things.” “Anything special, I mean?” “Everything she said was special, as far as I can remember.” She tried another avenue. “You’ve gone back to your old quarters, haven’t you?” “Yes; I kept them all the time I was away. Stupid, I suppose; but when I left New York I didn’t expect to be gone for more than a few weeks.” “Stephen Cantyre is in that house, isn’t he?” “On the same floor with me.” “You’ll see a great deal of him, won’t you?” “I did when I was there before.” “Was he on the dock to meet Regina?” “He was on the dock, either to meet her or to meet me. As a matter of fact, he met us both.” “Did he say anything about her?” “Yes; he said he had to go and speak to her.” “Only to speak to her?”