CHAPTER I
"THE trouble with you, Mr. Bevans," said Mrs. Rolles, gently, "is that you really are the least little bit vulgar."
"Good!" said he. "I knew there was something nice about me."
Mrs. Rolles smiled imperturbably. With her hands lying palms upward in her lap, she was leaning back with that calm which good breeding brings only to those who believe absolutely in its supremacy. She was a woman of fifty, not handsome, but with all the marks of race—small ears flat to the head; a long, slender throat; fine, soft hair, and delicate hands, a little too clawlike for beauty. Her drawing-room in which they were sitting was a hideous room. It had
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