her out?  What was the secret of these people about her that gave them such an assured manner?  No one spoke to her with cordial enthusiasm....  It was not a matter of wealth, or brains, or prominent church activity.  It was not even a matter of obscurity.  Like all large organizations, the Second Presbyterian Church was made up of every clique in the social calendar; the obscure circle was as clannish and distinctive in its way as any other group.  But Claire Robson was forced to admit that she did not belong even to the obscure circle.  She belonged nowhere—­that was the galling and oppressive truth that was forced upon her.

At this point she became aware that one of the most prominent church members, Mrs. Towne, was making an unmistakably cordial advance in her direction.  Claire had a misgiving....  Mrs. Towne was never excessively friendly except for a definite aim.

“My dear Miss Robson,” Mrs. Towne began, sweetly, drooping confidentially to a whispering posture, “I am so sorry, but I shall have to disturb you and your mother!...  It just happens that this table has been reserved for the elders and their wives....  I hope you’ll understand!”

For a moment Claire merely stared at the messenger of evil news.  Then, recovering herself, she managed to reply: 

“Oh yes, Mrs. Towne!  I understand perfectly....  I am sure we were very stupid....  Come, mother!”

Mrs. Robson responded at once to her daughter’s command.  The two women rose.  By this time the task of securing another place was quite hopeless.  Claire felt that every eye in the room was turned upon them.  Picking their way between a labyrinth of tables and chairs, they literally were stumbling in the direction of an exit when Claire felt a hand upon her arm.  She turned.

“Pardon me,” the man opposite her was saying, “but may I offer you a place at our table?”

Claire said nothing; she followed blindly.  Her mother was close upon her heels.

The table was a small one, and only two people were occupying it—­the man who had halted Claire, and a woman.  The man, standing with one hand on the chair which he had drawn up for Mrs. Robson, said, simply: 

“My name is Stillman, and of course you know Mrs. Condor—­the lady who has just sung for us.”

Claire gave a swift, inclusive glance.  Yes, it was the same woman who had attempted to beguile a weary audience from its impending repletion; at close range one could not escape the intense redness of her hair or the almost immoral whiteness of the shoulders and arms which she was at such little pains to conceal.

“Stillman?” Mrs. Robson was fluttering importantly.  “Not the old Rincon Hill family?”

“Yes, the old Rincon Hill family,” the man replied.