"Yes, you shall have some," she insisted, smiling in her gay little friendly way. "Come, Mr. Cleland, you are man of the world enough to waive formality. I’m going to sit here and make tea and talk to you. Look at me! Wouldn’t you like to be friends with me? Most men would." He looked up, and his slightly drawn features relaxed. "Yes," he said with a smile, "of course I would." "That’s very human of you," she laughed. "Shall we talk about Steve? What _did_ you think of that cablegram? Did you ever hear of such a crazy thing?" He flushed with anger but said nothing. The girl looked at him intently over the steaming kettle, then went on measuring out tea. "Shall I tell you about it, or would you rather that Steve told you?" she asked carelessly, busy with her preparations. "She is actually married to—Grismer—then?" "Well—I suppose so. You know him, of course." "Yes." "He _is_ fascinating—in that unusual way of his—poor fellow. Women like him better than men do. One meets him everywhere in artistic circles; but do you know, Mr. Cleland, I’ve always seemed to be conscious of a curious sort of latent hostility to Oswald Grismer, even among people he frequents—among men, particularly. However, he has no intimates." "If they are actually married," he said with an effort, "why does Stephanie live here with you?" "Oh, that was the ridiculous understanding. I myself don’t know why she married him. The whole affair was a crazy, feather-brained performance——" She poured his tea and offered him a sugar biscuit, which he declined. "You see," she continued, curling up into the depths of her rickety velvet arm-chair and taking her cup and a heap of sugar biscuits into her lap, "Oswald Grismer has been Steve’s shadow—at her heels always—and I know well enough that Stephanie was not insensible to the curious fascination of the man. You know how devotion impresses a girl—and he _is_ clever and good looking. "And that was all very well, and I don’t think it would have amounted to anything serious as long as Oswald was the amusing, good-looking, lazy and rich amateur of sculpture, with plenty of leisure to saunter through life and be charmingly attentive, and play with his profession when the whim suited him." She sipped her tea and looked at Cleland meditatively. "Did you know he’d lost all his money?" "No," said Cleland. "Oh, yes. He lost it a year ago. He has scarcely anything, I believe. He had a beautiful studio and apartment, wonderful treasures of antique furniture; he had about everything a rich young man fancies. It all went." "What was the matter?" "Nobody knows. He took a horrid little stable studio in Bleecker Street, and he lives there. And _that’s_ why Steve did that crazy, impulsive thing, I suppose." "You mean she was sorry for him?"