Van Degen shrugged.  “Nobody knows how it’s coming out That queer chap Elmer Moffatt threatens to give old Driscoll a fancy ball—­says he’s going to dress him in stripes!  It seems he knows too much about the Apex street-railways.”

Undine paled a little.  Though she had already tried on her costume for the Driscoll ball her disappointment at Van Degen’s announcement was effaced by the mention of Moffatt’s name.  She had not had the curiosity to follow the reports of the “Ararat Trust Investigation,” but once or twice lately, in the snatches of smoking-room talk, she had been surprised by a vague allusion to Elmer Moffatt, as to an erratic financial influence, half ridiculed, yet already half redoubtable.  Was it possible that the redoubtable element had prevailed?  That the time had come when Elmer Moffatt—­the Elmer Moffatt of Apex!—­could, even for a moment, cause consternation in the Driscoll camp?  He had always said he “saw things big”; but no one had ever believed he was destined to carry them out on the same scale.  Yet apparently in those idle Apex days, while he seemed to be “loafing and fooling,” as her father called it, he had really been sharpening his weapons of aggression; there had been something, after all, in the effect of loose-drifting power she had always felt in him.  Her heart beat faster, and she longed to question Van Degen; but she was afraid of betraying herself, and turned back to the group about the picture.  Mrs. Driscoll was still presenting objections in a tone of small mild obstinacy.  “Oh, it’s a likeness, of course—­I can see that; but there’s one thing I must say, Mr. Popple.  It looks like a last year’s dress.”

The attention of the ladies instantly rallied to the picture, and the artist paled at the challenge.

“It doesn’t look like a last year’s face, anyhow—­that’s what makes them all wild,” Van Degen murmured.  Undine gave him back a quick smile.  She had already forgotten about Moffatt.  Any triumph in which she shared left a glow in her veins, and the success of the picture obscured all other impressions.  She saw herself throning in a central panel at the spring exhibition, with the crowd pushing about the picture, repeating her name; and she decided to stop on the way home and telephone her press-agent to do a paragraph about Popple’s tea.

But in the hall, as she drew on her cloak, her thoughts reverted to the Driscoll fancy ball.  What a blow if it were given up after she had taken so much trouble about her dress!  She was to go as the Empress Josephine, after the Prudhon portrait in the Louvre.  The dress was already fitted and partly embroidered, and she foresaw the difficulty of persuading the dress-maker to take it back.

“Why so pale and sad, fair cousin?  What’s up?” Van Degen asked, as they emerged from the lift in which they had descended alone from the studio.

“I don’t know—­I’m tired of posing.  And it was so frightfully hot.”