“You are early,” said Mrs. Kildair, in surprise.

“On the contrary, you are late,” said the broker, glancing at his watch.

“Then be a good boy and help me with the candles,” she said, giving him a smile and a quick pressure of her fingers.

He obeyed, asking nonchalantly: 

“I say, dear lady, who’s to be here to-night?”

“The Enos Jacksons.”

“I thought they were separated.”

“Not yet.”

“Very interesting!  Only you, dear lady, would have thought of serving us a couple on the verge.”

“It’s interesting, isn’t it?”

“Assuredly.  Where did you know Jackson?”

“Through the Warings.  Jackson’s a rather doubtful person, isn’t he?”

“Let’s call him a very sharp lawyer,” said Flanders defensively.  “They tell me, though, he is on the wrong side of the market—­in deep.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I?  I’m a bachelor,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders, “and if I come a cropper it makes no difference.”

“Is that possible?” she said, looking at him quickly.

“Probable even.  And who else is coming?”

“Maude Lille—­you know her?”

“I think not.”

“You met her here—­a journalist.”

“Quite so, a strange career.”

“Mr. Harris, a clubman, is coming, and the Stanley Cheevers.”

“The Stanley Cheevers!” said Flanders with some surprise.  “Are we going to gamble?”

“You believe in that scandal about bridge?”

“Certainly not,” said Flanders, smiling.  “You see I was present.  The Cheevers play a good game, a well united game, and have an unusual system of makes.  By-the-way, it’s Jackson who is very attentive to Mrs. Cheever, isn’t it?”

“Quite right.”

“What a charming party,” said Flanders flippantly.  “And where does Maude Lille come in?”

“Don’t joke.  She is in a desperate way,” said Mrs. Kildair, with a little sadness in her eyes.

“And Harris?”

“Oh, he is to make the salad and cream the chicken.”

“Ah, I see the whole party.  I, of course, am to add the element of respectability.”

“Of what?”

She looked at him steadily until he turned away, dropping his glance.

“Don’t be an ass with me, my dear Flanders.”

“By George, if this were Europe I’d wager you were in the secret service, Mrs. Kildair.”

“Thank you.”

She smiled appreciatively and moved about the studio, giving the finishing touches.  The Stanley Cheevers entered, a short fat man with a vacant fat face and a slow-moving eye, and his wife, voluble, nervous, overdressed and pretty.  Mr. Harris came with Maude Lille, a woman, straight, dark, Indian, with great masses of somber hair held in a little too loosely for neatness, with thick, quick lips and eyes that rolled away from the person who was talking to her.  The Enos Jacksons were late and still agitated as