V., his little V.V., his own girl, entertaining
a lover, being possibly--most shameful thought--IN LOVE! Like some
ordinary silly female, sinking to kisses, to the deeds one could buy
and pay for. His V.V.! The idea infuriated and disgusted him. He fought
against it as a possibility. Once some woman in New York had ventured
to hint something to him of some fellow, some affair with an artist,
Caston; she had linked this Caston with V.V.'s red cross nursing in
Europe.... Old Grammont had made that woman sorry she spoke. Afterwards
he had caused enquiries to be made about this Caston, careful enquiries.
It seems that he and V.V. had known each other, there had been
something. But nothing that V.V. need be ashamed of. When old Grammont's
enquiry man had come back with his report, old Grammont had been very
particular about that. At first the fellow had not been very clear,
rather muddled indeed as to how things were--no doubt he had wanted
to make out there was something just to seem to earn his money. Old
Grammont had struck the table sharply and the eyes that looked out of
his mask had blazed. "What have you found out against her?" he had asked
in a low even voice. "Absolutely nothing, Sir," said the agent, suddenly
white to the lips....
Old Grammont stared at his memory of that moment for a while.
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