"Doctor Trowbridge, won't you help me?" cried the girl as she fairly leaped across the study and flung her arms about my shoulders. "I can't tell Dad or Mother, they wouldn't understand; so you're the only one--oh, excuse me, I thought you were alone!" Her face went crimson as she saw de Grandin standing by the fire.
"It's quite all right, my dear," I soothed, freeing myself from her almost hysterical clutch. "This is Doctor de Grandin, with whom I've been associated many times; I'd be glad to have the benefit of his advice, if you don't mind."
She gave him her hand and a wan smile as I performed the introduction, but her eyes warmed quickly as he raised her fingers to his lips with a soft "_Enchanté, Mademoiselle_." Women, animals and children took instinctively to Jules de Grandin.
Nella dropped her coat of silky shaven lamb and sank down on the study couch, her slim young figure molded in her knitted dress of coral rayon as revealingly as though she had been cased in plastic cellulose. She has long, violet eyes and a long mouth; smooth, dark hair parted in the middle; a small straight nose, and a small pointed chin. Every line of her is long, but definitely feminine; breasts and hips and throat and legs all delicately curved, without a hint of angularity.
"I've come to see you about Ned," she volunteered as de Grandin lit her cigarette and she sent a nervous smoke-stream gushing from between red, trembling lips. "He--he's trying to run out on me!"
"You mean Ned Minton?" I asked, wondering what a middle-aged physician could prescribe for wandering Romeos.
"I certainly do mean Ned Minton," she replied, "and I mean business, too. The darn, romantic fool!"
De Grandin's slender brows arched upward till they nearly met the beige-blond hair that slanted sleekly backward from his forehead. "_Pardonnez-moi_," he murmured. "Did I understand correctly, _Mademoiselle_? Your _amoureux_--how do you say him?--sweetheart?--has shown a disposition toward unfaithfulness, yet you accuse him of romanticism?"
"He's not unfaithful, that's the worst of it. He's faithful as Tristan and the chevalier Bayard lumped together, _sans peur et sans reproche_, you know. Says we can't get married, 'cause----"