“The god of the famishing—­bless you!” whispered Patricia and fell to the joy of the meal with the abandon of the starved.

She ate and drank and smoked.  She let Joan wait upon her and dispose of the debris.  She even directed Joan to the closet where her kimono and slippers were; she let Joan undress her and put them on.

“How thin you are, Pat lovey!” Here Joan kissed a white shoulder.

“A mere bag of bones, Joan lamb, but they are easy to carry around.”

“And such ducks of feet, Pat, I never saw such cunning feet.  They do not look big enough to be of use.”

“They’ll carry me as far as I have to go, Joan, and take it from me, I’m not keen for a prolonged trip.  It’s too much trouble to keep yourself alive to want to spin it out.”

“Oh, Pat!  Hasn’t my dinner done you any good?” Joan smoothed the soft, fluffy curls tenderly.

“Why, you old darling,” Patricia broke forth, “you’ve given me a glimpse of what would make it worth while—­the trip, I mean.  That’s the trouble.  I get the glimpse, acquire the taste, and then I wake up to—­sawdust.  Oh! good God, Joan.”

Joan rose and turned off the lights; she left the candles burning and sat down on a stool by Patricia.

After a while Patricia reached for her cigarettes and spoke as if several big things had not occurred.  She gurgled as a mischievous child might who had stolen jam and escaped detection.

“Your man, Joan,” she began puffing away, “is named Kenneth Raymond.  In tracking him I resorted first to Hannah Leland, society editor of Froth.  Hannah stores up items about the upper crust as a squirrel does nuts.  Her articles always have background; she’s let in everywhere because folks are afraid to shut her out.  She can see more through keyholes than others do through barn doors, and her scent is—­phenomenal!”

Joan hugged her knees and looked grave.

“I—­I hate to snoop, Pat,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to—­I got Hannah’s snoops for you.  They’re innocent enough—­really, they’re the soundest of sound little nuts.

“Mrs. Tweksbury had a romance!  Don’t grin, Joan.  She didn’t always look like a squaw in front of a tobacco shop—­they say she was rather a stunner.  She married Tweksbury before she got the bit in her mouth—­afterward she clutched it good and proper and trotted the course according to the rules.

“Then came Raymond—­this man’s father.  He somehow got it over to Mrs. Tweksbury—­the real thing, you know, and she reached and got it over to him, that it was up to them to—­keep it clean.  Gee!  Joan, her past sounds like a tract with all the sobs left out and a lot of iron put in.