The man out there under the electric globe was still talking; the woman, his companion, still listened.  Florence caught herself straining her ears to hear what he was saying; but to no purpose.  She heard only the repressed murmur of his well-modulated, resonant voice; yet that in itself was enough.  The old song of the sirens was flowing from his lips, and passion flamed in his eyes.  Farther and farther across the tiny intervening table, nearer the woman’s face, his own approached.  The last empty bottle, the thin-stemmed glasses, stood in his way, and he moved them aside with his elbow.  So near now was he that their breaths mingled, and as the drone of his voice ceased, the music of the orchestra, a waltz, flowed into the rift with its steady one-two-three.  He was motionless; but his eyes, intense blue eyes under long lashes, were fixed absorbingly on hers.

It was the woman’s turn to move.  Gradually, gracefully, unconsciously, her own face came forward toward his.  Sparkling in the light, a jewelled hand rested on the surface of the table.  A tinge of crimson mounted the long white neck, and colored it to the roots of her hair.  The arteries at the throat throbbed under the thin skin.  Simultaneously, the opening gate of the elevator clicked, and a man—­another with that unmistakable air of leisure—­approached; but still she did not notice, did not hear.  Instead, with a sudden motion, heedless of surroundings, reckless of spectators, her face crossed the gap intervening between her and her companion; her lips touched his lips, caught fire with the contact, met them again and again.

Watching, scarcely breathing, Florence saw the figure of the man come closer.  His eyes also were upon the pair.  He caught their every motion; but he did not hurry.  On he came, leisurely, impassively, as though out for a stroll.  He stopped by their side, a darkening shadow with a mask-like face.  Instinctively the two glanced up.  There was a crash of glassware, as the tiny table lurched in the woman’s hand—­and they were on their feet.  A moment the three looked into each others’ eyes, looked deep and long; then together, without a word, they turned toward the elevator.  Again, droning monotonously, the car appeared and disappeared.  After them, vibrant, mocking, there beat the unvarying rhythm of the waltz, one-two-three, one-two-three.

In the shadow, Florence Baker’s face dropped into her hands.  When at last she glanced up another couple, likewise immaculate of attire, likewise debonair and smiling, were seated at the little table.  She turned to her companion.  His cigar was still glowing brightly.  He had not moved.

“I think I’ll go home now, if you please,” she said, and every trace of animation had left her voice.  “I’m rather tired.”

The man roused himself.  “It’s early yet.  There’ll be vaudeville here in a little while, after the theatre.”

The girl observed him curiously.  “It’s early, did you say?”