They had not been talking about my aunt and her Salon, but about my ...

my sister.

She was De Mersch's "_Anglaise_." I did not believe it, but probably all Paris--the whole world--said she was.

And to the whole world I was her brother! Those two men who had looked at me over their shoulders had shrugged and said, "Oh, _he's_ ..." And the whole world wherever I went would whisper in asides, "Don't you know Granger?
He's the brother.

De Mersch employs him." I began to understand everything; the woman in de Mersch's room with her "Eschingan-Grangeur-r-r"; the deference of the little Jew--the man who knew.