The Flints were there, too; Flint looked uncomfortable and warm in his scant full-dress suit and his wife frankly ridiculous in a low-cut gown that exhibited every angle of a hopelessly scrawny neck.  Claire did not see them until she was leaving the stage, and she smiled as she saw Flint lean over and pick up the opera-glasses from his wife’s lap.  But this was not all.  In a far corner sat Miss Munch and her cousin, Mrs. Richards, their ferret eyes darting busily about and their tongues clicking even more rapidly.  Doubtless Flint had invested in a number of tickets at the office for business reasons and passed them around for any of the office force who felt a desire to see society at close range.

Claire had not meant to stay beyond one or two numbers following her own appearance, but she kept yielding to Mrs. Condor’s insistent suggestions that she “stay for just one more,” until she discovered, to her dismay, that it was past midnight.  The last artists were taking their places upon the stage.  Claire resigned herself to the inevitable and sat out the remainder of the performance.  She was making a quick exit into the dressing-room when she came face to face with her aunt.  Mrs. Ffinch-Brown betrayed her confusion by the merest lift of the eyebrows, and she stepped back as if to get a clearer view of her niece, as she said with an air of polite surprise: 

“You—­here?”

Claire carried her head confidently.  “I was on the program,” she returned, consciously eying the turquoise pendants.

Mrs. Ffinch-Brown rested a closed fan against her left ear as if to screen at least one of the earrings from Claire’s frank stare.  “Oh, how interesting!  I must have missed you—­I came in late.  It’s rather odd.  I thought I knew everybody on the program....  I helped arrange it.”

“Well,” Claire smiled, “I wasn’t what you would call one of the head-liners.  I played Mrs. Condor’s accompaniments.”

“That accounts for it ... my not knowing, I mean.  I dare say your mother is better, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

Claire met her aunt’s thrust calmly.  “No, mother is worse, if anything.  As a matter of fact, I’m here....”

She broke off abruptly, realizing suddenly that she had left her orchids behind.  She turned to discover Stillman making his leisurely way toward her.  He had the orchids in his hand.

“My dear Miss Robson,” he said, gently, “Mrs. Condor came very near appropriating your flowers.”

She could feel the color rising to her forehead.  “I see you came to my rescue again,” she said, simply, taking them from him.  “I think you know Mr. Stillman, Aunt Julia.”

Mrs. Ffinch-Brown forced a too-sweet smile as she gave Stillman a nod of recognition.  “Fancy any girl forgetting so much gorgeousness!” she exclaimed with an attempt at lightness, but Claire caught the covert rancor in her voice, and as her aunt made a movement of escape she put out a restraining hand and said: