“I wanted you to know, Aunt Julia, that I’m here merely as a matter of business.  Mrs. Condor has hired me to play her accompaniments.”

Mrs. Ffinch-Brown shook off Claire impatiently. “Hired you!” she sneered.  “How extraordinary!”

And with that she swept past, giving Stillman a glance of farewell.

Claire turned to Stillman.  “What must you think of me?  Leaving my flowers behind.  Confess—­it was you who sent them....  I was in such a rush to get away, though.  I shouldn’t have stayed so long.  My mother is alone....  Of course there are neighbors just below and they will look in on her, but just the same....”

His smile reassured her.  “Are you forgetting about to-morrow?” he asked.  “Remember we are to begin business promptly at two o’clock.  I hired a typewriting-machine yesterday.  I’m really thrilled at the idea of—­of going into business.”

She looked at him steadily as she gave him her hand:  “My dear Mr. Stillman,” she said, quite frankly, “you are very kind.”

He answered by pressing her hand warmly and she covered her face with the purple orchids.  They were interrupted by Lily Condor sweeping rather arrogantly toward them.

“Haven’t you gone yet?” she asked Claire.  “I thought you were in a hurry!  I hope you’ve persuaded Ned to get us a taxi.  I hate street-cars at this hour.”  And in answer to Claire’s embarrassed protest that she had never given such a thing a thought, Mrs. Condor finished:  “Well, I’ve given it a thought, and don’t you forget it.  Come, Ned, is it a go?”

Claire fancied that a flicker of annoyance passed over Stillman’s face as he answered, with a dry laugh: 

“You might at least have given me time to prove my gallantry.”

“I’m not taking any chances,” was the prompt reply.

Claire turned away.  What had contrived to give Mrs. Condor this disagreeable air of assurance toward Ned Stillman, she found herself wondering.  It had not been apparent at the Condor-Stillman musicale....

She arrived home dismayed to find the front room illuminated, but the rattle of the departing taxi brought Mrs. Finnegan to the top of the stairs with a laughing apology.

“I just looked in to see how your mother was, Miss Claire, and I found a book on the front-room table”—­Mrs. Finnegan held up Ouida’s Moths—­“and I got so interested in it that I just naturally forgot to go home.  Finnegan’s out, anyway.  I was telling him about your good fortune.  And all he said was:  ’Well, it beats me how an old crow like Mrs. Condor gets paid for singing.  I remember five years ago, when she wasn’t so uppish, we had her for a benefit performance of the Native Sons, and she didn’t get paid then.  Her singing may be over my head.  Anyway, it didn’t get to my ears.’  But Finnegan is always like that.  He just likes to contradict.  I got back at him.  I said, ’Well, if she can afford to pay Miss Claire forty a month for playing