will probably be Sir Bruce. I mean that she'll leave him for."
"And who in the world is Sir Bruce?"
She consulted her store of impressions. "Sir Bruce Bagley, Bart., I think he said."
Traffle fitted it in silence. "A soldier?" he then asked.
"I'm uncertain—but, as I seem to remember, a patron. He buys pictures."
Traffle could privately imagine it. "And that's how she knows him?"
Jane allowed for his simplicity. "Oh, how she 'knows' people—!"
It still held him, however, an instant. "What sort of a type?"
She seemed to wonder a little at his press of questions, but after just facing it didn't pretend to more than she knew. She was, on this basis of proper relations that she had settled, more and more willing, besides, to oblige. "I'll find out for you."
It came in a tone that made him turn off. "Oh, I don't mind." With which he was back at the window.
She hovered—she didn't leave him; he felt her there behind him as if she had noted a break in his voice or a moisture in his eyes—a tribute to a natural pang even for a not real niece. He wouldn't renew with her again, and would have been glad now had she quitted him; but there grew for him during the next moments the strange sense that, with what had
