“A very pretty little fable,” said Kent.  “And the moral?”

“Is that I amuse myself with you—­all of you; and in your turn you make use of me—­or you think you do.  Of what use can I be to Mr. David Kent this evening?”

“See how you misjudge me!” he protested.  “My errand here to-night is purely charitable.  Which brings me back to Ormsby:  did you say you could tell me where to look for him?”

“He is in the smoking-room with five or six other tobacco misanthropes.  What do you want of him?”

“I want to say two words in his ear; after which I shall vanish and make room for my betters.”

Miss Van Brock was gazing steadfastly at the impassioned face lighted by the piano candles.

“Is it about Miss Brentwood?” she asked abruptly.

“In a way—­yes,” he confessed.

She rose and stood beside him—­a bewitching figure of a woman who knew her part in the human comedy and played it well.

“Is it wise, David?” she asked softly.  “I am not denying the possibilities:  you might come between them if you should try—­I’m rather afraid you could.  But you mustn’t, you know; it’s too late.  You’ve marred her, between you; or rather that convention, which makes a woman deaf, blind and dumb until a man has fairly committed himself, has marred her.  For your sake she can never be quite all she ought to be to him:  for his sake she could never be quite the same to you.”

He drew apart from her, frowning.

“If I should say that I don’t fully understand what you mean?” he rejoined.

“I should retort by saying something extremely uncomplimentary about your lack of perspicacity,” she cut in maliciously.

“I beg pardon,” he said, a little stiffly.  “You are laboring under an entirely wrong impression.  What I have to say to Mr. Brookes Ormsby does not remotely concern the matter you touch upon.  It’s an affair of the Stock Exchange.”

“As if I didn’t know!” she countered.  “You merely reminded me of the other thing.  But if it is only a business secret you may as well tell me all about it at first hands.  Some one is sure to tell me sooner or later.”

Now David Kent was growing impatient.  Down in the inner depths of him he was persuaded that Ormsby might have difficulty in inducing Mrs. Brentwood to sell her Western Pacific stock even at an advance; might require time, at least.  And time, with a Bucks majority tinkering with corporate rights in the Assembly, might well be precious.

“Forgive me if I tell Ormsby first,” he pleaded.  “Afterward, if you care to know, you shall.”

Miss Van Brock let him go at that, but now the way to the smoking-den on the floor above was hedged up.  He did battle with the polite requirements, as a man must; shaking hands or exchanging a word with one and another of the obstructors only as he had to.  None the less, when he had finally wrought his way to the smoking-room Ormsby had eluded him again.