“And you think we might be improved, too?” Christine retorted.  “Well, I must say you’re not very flattering, Mr. Becton, anyway.”

Becton would have liked to answer her according to her cattishness, with a good clawing sarcasm that would leave its smart in her pride; but he was being good, and he could not change all at once.  Besides, the girl’s attitude under the social honor done her interested him.  He was sure she had never been in such good company before, but he could see that she was not in the least affected by the experience.  He had told her who this person and that was; and he saw she had understood that the names were of consequence; but she seemed to feel her equality with them all.  Her serenity was not obviously akin to the savage stoicism in which Beaton hid his own consciousness of social inferiority; but having won his way in the world so far by his talent, his personal quality, he did not conceive the simple fact in her case.  Christine was self-possessed because she felt that a knowledge of her father’s fortune had got around, and she had the peace which money gives to ignorance; but Beaton attributed her poise to indifference to social values.  This, while he inwardly sneered at it, avenged him upon his own too keen sense of them, and, together with his temporary allegiance to Margaret’s goodness, kept him from retaliating Christine’s vulgarity.  He said, “I don’t see how that could be,” and left the question of flattery to settle itself.

The people began to go away, following each other up to take leave of Mrs. Horn.  Christine watched them with unconcern, and either because she would not be governed by the general movement, or because she liked being with Beaton, gave no sign of going.  Mela was still talking to the student of human nature, sending out her laugh in deep gurgles amid the unimaginable confidences she was making him about herself, her family, the staff of ‘Every Other Week,’ Mrs. Mandel, and the kind of life they had all led before she came to them.  He was not a blind devotee of art for art’s sake, and though he felt that if one could portray Mela just as she was she would be the richest possible material, he was rather ashamed to know some of the things she told him; and he kept looking anxiously about for a chance of escape.  The company had reduced itself to the Dryfoos groups and some friends of Mrs. Horn’s who had the right to linger, when Margaret crossed the room with Conrad to Christine and Beaton.

“I’m so glad, Miss Dryfoos, to find that I was not quite a stranger to you all when I ventured to call, the other day.  Your brother and I are rather old acquaintances, though I never knew who he was before.  I don’t know just how to say we met where he is valued so much.  I suppose I mustn’t try to say how much,” she added, with a look of deep regard at him.

Conrad blushed and stood folding his arms tight over his breast, while his sister received Margaret’s confession with the suspicion which was her first feeling in regard to any new thing.  What she concluded was that this girl was trying to get in with them, for reasons of her own.  She said:  “Yes; it’s the first I ever heard of his knowing you.  He’s so much taken up with his meetings, he didn’t want to come to-night.”