For a moment Bobby hesitated. If there were one man in all his acquaintance whom he would have preferred that Madame de Corantin should not know, it was Alistair Ramsey. Bobby had known him for a good many years. The acquaintance dated back to a period when Ramsey was a comparatively young man of fashionable manner and appearance on half-commission with a firm of stockbrokers. Even then he aspired to smart society, but this social recognition involved an expenditure considerably beyond his earning capacity. In those days Bobby had been of no small use to him. Many were the dinners to which Ramsey had done the inviting, he the paying, and if that gentleman of fashion was not above accepting the lavish attentions of the man about town, whom he regarded as quite outside his own world, still less was he averse to the loans forthcoming at moments of embarrassment, accompanied by a thinly veiled hint from Bobby that they were repayable only when circumstances permitted. Bobby was not calculating, but without any deep reflection on the subject he knew that Ramsey was “on the make,” and it was not unreasonable to expect him to have at least a kindly feeling for an old friend when he “arrived.” In this, however, he was disappointed. Though with the rise in his fortunes Ramsey’s vanity extinguished his sense of obligation, his pride was not equal to paying his debts. Bobby may or may not have realized that his former friend’s gratitude was of the same quality as his honour, but in any case he showed no resentment. He was sufficiently accustomed to the ways of the successful to take them as they were, and to pass over those characteristics to which, after all, they partly owe their success. Indeed, had it been a question of introducing any one but Madame de Corantin to Ramsey, he would have ignored the latter’s insolence and ingratitude alike and conformed to his habitual rôle as purveyor of amusement to all and sundry. For Bobby’s dignity was not great, and the secret of the kind of popularity he enjoyed was in no small measure attributable to his own lack of self-respect. But for the first time in his life Bobby’s pride now asserted itself. At last he was being “tried too high.” “Excuse me, madame, if before answering you I ask you why you are interested?” Madame de Corantin considered an instant. “I shall tell you, my friend, but not now.” She glanced round her significantly as she spoke. “The little story is rather private, and I should not care to be overheard. You understand?” “Oh, please don’t--please,” he stammered, feeling he had been indiscreet, but flattered all the same by the promise of her confidence. “His name is Alistair Ramsey. I have known him a long time.” “Is he an intimate friend of yours, monsieur?” “Well, no, I can’t say intimate, but I used to know him very well.” “What is his position in London?” Bobby thought a moment. “Do you mean his position now during the War or generally?” “Both.”