Mrs. Kirkwood, I had learned from her brother, was at Territet, at the Hotel Excelsior, with the Horace Armstrongs. At four the following afternoon I descended at Montreux from the Milan express; at five, with travel stains removed, I was in the garden of the Excelsior having tea with Mrs. Armstrong and listening to her raptures over the Savoy Alps. Doubtless you know Mrs. Armstrong’s (Neva Carlin’s) work. Her portrait of Edna is famous, is one of the best examples I know of inside-outness. Edna does not like it, perhaps for that reason. Mary and Horace Armstrong had gone up to Caux. “But,” said Neva, “they’ll surely be back in a few minutes. Count von Tilzer-Borgfeldt is coming at half-past five.” I instantly recognized that name as the one Edna gave in telling me that Mary had gone shopping for a title and had invested. I had thought Edna’s jeer produced no effect upon me. I might have known better. My nature has, inevitably, been made morbidly suspicious by my business career. Also, I had found out Robert Armitage as a well-veneered snob, and this could not but have put me in an attitude of watchfulness toward his sister, so like him mentally. Also my investigations of that most important phenomenon of American life, the American woman, had compelled me to the conclusion that the disease of snobbishness had infected them all, with a few doubtful exceptions. So, without my realizing it, my mind was prepared to believe that Mary Kirkwood was like the rest. When Neva Armstrong pronounced the name Edna had given, there shot through me that horrible feeling of insufferable heat and insufferable cold which it would be useless to attempt to describe; for those who have felt it will understand at once, and those who have not could not be made to understand. And then I recalled Hartley Beechman’s jeer, “She’s laughing at us both.” But my voice was natural as I said: “Tilzer-Borgfeldt. That’s the chap she’s engaged to just now, isn’t it?” Mrs. Armstrong, who is a loyal friend, flushed angrily. “Mary isn’t that sort, and you know it, for you’ve known her a long time.” “Then she’s not engaged to him?” said I. “Yes, she is,” replied Neva. “And if you knew him, you’d not wonder at it. I don’t like foreigners, but if I weren’t bespoke I think I’d have to take Tilzer-Borgfeldt if he asked me.” “No doubt it’s a first-class title,” said I. “You know perfectly well, Godfrey Loring, that I don’t mean the title.” She happened to glance toward the entrance to the garden. “Here he comes now. You’ll judge for yourself.”