In repose, it struck Stillman that Mrs. Condor seemed very much like a purring cat.  He had never seen her quite so frankly behind the scenes, robbed of both her physical and mental make-up.  She was one of those women in middle age who adapt themselves to the tone of their background and while she contrived to strike a fairly vivid note, she took care not to be discordant.  She was clever enough to realize that her talents were not sensational and that she could only hope for an indifferent success as a professional.  But in the role of a gracious amateur she disarmed criticism and forced her way into circles that might otherwise have been at some pains to exclude her.  For, if the truth were known, there had been certain phases of Mrs. Condor’s earlier life which were rather vaguely, and at the same time aptly, covered by Mrs. Finnegan’s term of “gay.”  A perfectly discreet woman, for instance, would have made an effort to live down her flaming hair and almost immorally dazzling complexion, but Mrs. Condor had been much more ready to live up to these conspicuous charms.  In fact, she had lived up to them pretty furiously, until time began to take a ruthless toll of her contrasting points.  From the concert-platform she still seemed to discount, almost to flout, the years, but in secret she yielded unmistakably to their pressure.

It was this yielding, pliant attitude that struck Stillman as he came upon her almost unawares on that early December afternoon, a yielding, pliant attitude which gave a curious sense of tenacity under the surface.  And he thought, as he dropped into the chair she indicated, that she was a woman who gained strength in these moments of relaxation.

“Fancy your catching me like this!” she said, “I thought when the bell rang that you were my dressmaker....  If you want a highball you’ll have to wait on yourself.  Phil Edington brought an awfully good bottle of Scotch last night.  I declare I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have a youngster or two on my staff.  Old men are such bores, anyway, and, as a matter of fact, they never waste time on any woman over thirty.  Well, I don’t blame them.  We’re a sorry, patched-up mess at best....  Tell me, did you get hold of Miss Robson?”

“I dropped in, but she wasn’t at the office,” Stillman replied, tossing his hat on the center-table.

Mrs. Condor withdrew to the relaxation of her innumerable sofa pillows again.  “Wasn’t at the office?  How thrilling!  Is she one of the Sultan’s favorites?...  I’ve heard Sawyer Flint was an easy mark if you know how to work him.  Miss Robson didn’t strike me that way, though.  But I ought to have known that silent women are always cleverer than they appear.”

Stillman caught the barest suggestion of a sneer in Mrs. Condor’s tone—­the sneer of a woman relinquishing a stubborn hold upon the gaieties.

“Well, I guess Miss Robson didn’t know how to work him, as a matter of fact,” Stillman said, quietly.  “She lost her job to-day.  I’m a little bit worried about her....  I came here on purpose to talk the situation over with you.”