There were four in their party but it was only with Alfred Baldwin that Mary Wollaston danced.  The other man—­Black his name was, and he came from Iowa City or Dubuque or thereabouts—­devoted all his attention to Baldwin’s wife.  He was very rich, very much married—­out in Iowa—­and whenever he made his annual business trip to New York, he liked to have a real New York time.  They had dined together at the Baldwins’ apartment with a vague idea of going afterward to see a play of Baldwin’s then drawing toward the close of a successful season’s run.  But dinner had been late and they had lingered too long over it to make this excursion worth while.  It had amused both Mary and Christabel to discover Black’s secret hope of being taken back-stage and introduced to the beautiful young star who was playing in the piece and taking her out to supper with them.  He didn’t know that Baldwin hated her with a perfect hatred and never got within speaking distance of her if he could help it.

So, by way of making up to the western visitor for his disappointment they taxied up-town about ten o’clock to the brightest, loudest and most fantastically expensive of New York’s dancing restaurants.  Once there, he took command of the party; confidently addressed the head waiter by his first name and began “opening wine” with a lavish hand.  He was flirting in what he conceived to be quite a desperate and depraved manner with Christabel, and what enhanced his pleasure in this entertainment was that he did it all right under the nose of the husband, who obviously didn’t mind a bit.  He would talk eloquently when he got home, with carefully selected corroborative details, about the wickedness of New York.

Mary liked the Baldwins.  Christabel was on the executive committee of their Fund and one of the best and steadiest and most sensible supporters it had.  She was a real person.  Baldwin, himself, whom she hadn’t known so long nor so well and had regarded from afar as a rather formidable celebrity, proved on better acquaintance, though witty and sophisticated, to be as comfortable as an old glove.  Altogether they were the nearest thing to friends that her long sojourn in New York had given her.  She had sometimes thought rather wildly of putting them to the test and seeing whether they were real friends or not.

To-night, though, even they irritated her.  She wished Christabel would snub that appalling bounder, Black, as he deserved.  How could she go on playing up to him like that!  As for Baldwin, she wished he would just dance with her and not talk.  She supposed that the amount of alcohol they had consumed since seven o’clock had something to do with his verging upon the vein, the Broadway sentimental vein, that he had got started on and couldn’t seem to let alone.

It wasn’t new to Mary.  Indeed it was a phenomenon familiarly associated in her mind with Forty-second Street restaurants and late hours and strong drink, particularly gin.  The crocodile tear for the good woman who stayed at home; who didn’t know; who never, please God! should know.  The tribute to flower-like innocence—­the paper flower-like innocence of the stage ingenue!