A hundred or so of men had dined together in the cause of some charity.  The odor of their dinner, mingled with the more aromatic perfume of the tobacco smoke which was already ascending in little blue clouds from the various tables, hung about the over-heated room, seeming, indeed, the fitting atmosphere for the long rows of guests.  The majority of them were in a state of expansiveness.  Their faces were redder than when they had sat down; a certain stiffness had departed from their shirt-fronts and their manners; their faces were flushed, their eyes watery.  There were a few exceptions—­paler-faced men who sat there with the air of endeavoring to bring themselves into accord with surroundings in which they had no real concern.  Two of these looked up with interest at the first note of Beatrice’s song.  The one was sitting within a few places of the chairman, and he was too far away for his little start to be noticed by either Tavernake or Beatrice.  The nearer one, however, Tavernake happened to be watching, and he saw the change in his expression.  The man was, in his way, ugly.  His face was certainly not a good one, although he did not appear to share the immediate weaknesses of his neighbors.  To every note of the song he listened intently.  When it was over, he rose and came toward Tavernake.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but did I not see you come in with the young lady who has just been singing?”

“You may have,” Tavernake answered.  “I certainly did come with her.”

“May I ask if you are related to her?”

Tavernake had got over his hesitation in replying to such questions, by now.  He answered promptly.

“I am her brother,” he declared.

The man produced a card.

“Please introduce me to her,” he begged, laconically.

“Why should I?” Tavernake asked.  “I have no reason to suppose that she desires to know you.”

The man stared at him for a moment, and then laughed.

“Well,” he said, “you had better show your sister my card.  She is, I presume, a professional, as she is singing here.  My desire to make her acquaintance is purely actuated by business motives.”

Tavernake moved away toward the waiting-room.

The man, who according to his card was Mr. Sidney Grier, would have followed him in, but Tavernake stopped him.

“If you will wait here,” he suggested, “I will see whether my sister desires to meet you.”

Once more Mr. Sidney Grier looked surprised, but after a second glance at Tavernake he accepted his suggestion and remained outside.  Tavernake took the card to Beatrice.

“Beatrice,” he announced, “there is a man outside who has heard you sing and who wants to be introduced.”

She took the card and her eyes opened wide.

“Do you know who he is?” Tavernake asked.

“Of course,” she answered.  “He is a great producer of musical comedies.  Let me think.”