"You ask that? You have the impudence? When it is only out of kindness of heart that I keep you here, after you have been mixed up in a murder case. Many men less kind-hearted than I would have dismissed you immediately."

"That's nonsense," said Jane coolly. "I'm a draw in this place, and you know it. If you want me to go, I'll go. I'll easily get what I want from Henri's or the Maison Richet."

"And who is to know you have gone there? Of what importance are you anyway?"

"I met one or two reporters at that inquest," said Jane. "One of them would give my change of establishment any publicity needed."

Because he feared that this was indeed so, grumblingly M. Antoine agreed to Jane's demands. Gladys applauded her friend heartily.

"Good for you, dear," she said. "Iky Andrew was no match for you that time. If a girl couldn't fend for herself a bit, I don't know where we'd all be. Grit, dear, that's what you've got, and I admire you for it."

"I can fight for my own hand all right," said Jane, her small chin lifting itself pugnaciously. "I've had to all my life."

"Hard lines, dear," said Gladys. "But keep your end up with Iky Andrew. He likes you all the better for it, really. Meekness doesn't pay in this life, but I don't think we're either of us troubled by too much of that."

Thereafter Jane's narrative, repeated daily with little variation, sank into the equivalent of a part played on the stage.

The promised dinner and theater with Norman Gale had duly come off. It was one of those enchanting evenings when every word and confidence exchanged seemed to reveal a bond of sympathy and shared tastes.

They liked dogs and disliked cats. They both hated oysters and loved smoked salmon. They liked Greta Garbo and disliked Katharine Hepburn. They didn't like fat women and admired really jet-black hair. They disliked very red nails. They disliked loud voices, and noisy restaurants. They preferred busses to tubes.

It seemed almost miraculous that two people should have so many points of agreement.

One day at Antoine's, opening her bag, Jane let a letter from Norman fall out. As she picked it up with a slightly heightened color, Gladys pounced upon her:

"Who's your boy friend, dear?"

"I don't know what you mean," retorted Jane, her color rising.

"Don't tell me! I know that letter isn't from your mother's great-uncle. I wasn't born yesterday. Who is he, Jane?"

"It's someone - a man - that I met at Le Pinet. He's a dentist."

"A dentist," said Gladys with lively distaste. "I suppose he's got very white teeth and a smile."

Jane was forced to admit that this was indeed the case.

"He's got a very brown face and very blue eyes."

"Anyone can have a brown face," said Gladys. "It may be the seaside or it may be out of a bottle - two and eleven pence at the chemist's. Handsome Men are Slightly Bronzed. The eyes sound all right. But a dentist! Why, if he was going to kiss you, you'd feel he was going to say, 'Open a little wider, please.'"