“What’s new in beans to-day?...  Are reds still a favorite?”

Stillman would throw back an equally cryptic answer, thinking as he did so: 

“What a wigging I must be getting over the teacups!  I guess I’ll cut it all out in the future.”

But he usually went no farther than his impulsive resolves.

Sometimes he wondered what Claire thought of his faithful appearance.  Did she fancy that he came to bask in the smiling impertinences of Lily Condor?

As he made his way to a street-car on this vivid February afternoon, he called to mind that of late Claire had been bringing a fagged look to her daily tasks.  He hoped again that Mrs. Condor’s desire to see him had to do with Claire—­more particularly with her dismissal as accompanist.  Miss Menzies had quite recovered and there was really no reason for Claire to continue in her service.  It struck him as he pondered all these matters how strange it was to find him concerned about these feminine adjustments—­he who had always stared down upon trivial circumstances with cold scorn.

He arrived at Lily Condor’s apartments almost upon the lady’s heels.  Her hat was still ornamenting the center-table and her wrap lay upon a wicker rocker, where, with a quick movement of irritation, it had been cast aside.

Her greeting was not reassuring.  “Oh....” she began coldly.  “Isn’t this rather late for lunch?”

“I’m really very sorry,” Stillman returned as he took a chair, “but to be frank, I quite forgot about you.”

“Well,” she tried to laugh back at him, “there isn’t any virtue as disagreeable as the truth.  I expected you would at least attempt to be polite enough to lie.”

“I hope you were not too greatly inconvenienced,” he said, in a deliberate attempt to ignore her irritation.

“I waited two hours, if that is what you mean.  But then, my time isn’t particularly valuable.”

He rose suddenly.  “I’ve told you that I was sorry,” he began coldly, reaching for his hat.  “But evidently you are determined to be disagreeable.  I fancied you wanted to see me about something urgent, so I came almost as soon as I remembered.”

She snatched the discarded wrap from its place on the wicker rocker as she glared at him.  “You’re in something of a hurry, it seems....  Well, I sha’n’t detain you.  The truth is there’s a pretty kettle of fish stewed up over this young woman, Claire Robson....  I want you to tell her that she can’t play at the Cafe Chantant next Friday night.”

“Want me to tell her?  I don’t see where I come in....  Why don’t you tell her yourself?”

“Because I don’t choose to....  Besides, I think you might do it a little more delicately.  I can’t tell her brutally that she isn’t wanted.”

“Isn’t wanted?  Why, what do you mean?”

“The committee informs me that she isn’t the sort of person they are accustomed to have featured in their entertainments.  It seems that Mrs. Flint....”