Whereupon relief brightened his face, and the man beamed his approval.  Trust Mrs. Eppingwell to drag him clear.  Freda had met her match this time.

“I—­I—­” Freda hesitated, and then her feminine mind putting on its harness—­“and who are you to ask this question?”

“I?  I am Mrs. Eppingwell, and—­”

“There!” the other broke in sharply.  “You are the wife of a captain, who is therefore your husband.  I am only a dancing girl.  What do you with this man?”

“Such unprecedented behavior!” Mrs. McFee ruffled herself and cleared for action, but Mrs. Eppingwell shut her mouth with a look and developed a new attack.

“Since Miss Moloof appears to hold claims upon you, Mr. Vanderlip, and is in too great haste to grant me a few seconds of your time, I am forced to appeal directly to you.  May I speak with you, alone, and now?”

Mrs. McFee’s jaws brought together with a snap.  That settled the disgraceful situation.

“Why, er—­that is, certainly,” the man stammered.  “Of course, of course,” growing more effusive at the prospect of deliverance.

Men are only gregarious vertebrates, domesticated and evolved, and the chances are large that it was because the Greek girl had in her time dealt with wilder masculine beasts of the human sort; for she turned upon the man with hell’s tides aflood in her blazing eyes, much as a bespangled lady upon a lion which has suddenly imbibed the pernicious theory that he is a free agent.  The beast in him fawned to the lash.

“That is to say, ah, afterward.  To-morrow, Mrs. Eppingwell; yes, to-morrow.  That is what I meant.”  He solaced himself with the fact, should he remain, that more embarrassment awaited.  Also, he had an engagement which he must keep shortly, down by the water-hole off the hospital.  Ye gods! he had never given Freda credit!  Wasn’t she magnificent!

“I’ll thank you for my mask, Mrs. McFee.”

That lady, for the nonce speechless, turned over the article in question.

“Good-night, Miss Moloof.”  Mrs. Eppingwell was royal even in defeat.

Freda reciprocated, though barely downing the impulse to clasp the other’s knees and beg forgiveness,—­no, not forgiveness, but something, she knew not what, but which she none the less greatly desired.

The man was for her taking his arm; but she had made her kill in the midst of the pack, and that which led kings to drag their vanquished at the chariot-tail, led her toward the door alone, Floyd Vanderlip close at heel and striving to re-establish his mental equilibrium.

V