Then the old resolution, the conquering will of the man of one purpose, beat back the flames of this threatening conflagration.  His eyes narrowed, his hands dropped to his side, and he squinted at her with the frigid dissective gaze of an artist studying the curves of a model.

“You must rouge your cheeks more, blue your eyelids and redden your lips even yet.  Then be generous with the powder—­and that wonderful perfume.”

An inscrutable smile played about the sensitive lips, as Helene turned to her dressing-table.  Shirley stood with his face to the window; he did not observe it, nor would he have understood its menace to his own peace of mind.  Helene, however, did.  She was a woman.

“May I smoke a cigarette?  I am afraid I am almost a fiend, for I seem to crave the foolish comfort that I imagine they give, in times of nervous drain.”

“No, Lollypop’s little Bonton Tootems enjoys their fragrance.  Don’t ever ask me again.  I have completed the mural decoration with futurist extravagance in the color scheme.  My cloak, sir!”

He tossed it about her, and took up his hat and gold-headed stick.  With a final glance at his own careful make-up, he started after her for the street.

“Some chikabiddy!” was the remark of the clerk to the head bell-boy.  The words reached the ears of Shirley and Helene.  Her hand trembled on his arm as they entered a waiting taxicab.  She looked pathetically at him, as she asked.

“Don’t you think I am interested, sincere and loyal, to brave such remarks as these, and the other worse things they will say before long?  I wouldn’t dare do this, if I were not sure that no one in America but you and Mr. Holloway knows me.  To wear this horrid stuff on my face—­to dress in these vulgar clothes—­to impersonate such a girl!  You know I’m not nearly as bad as I’m painted!”

Shirley clasped her white-gloved hand and nodded.  He was studying the pedestrians for a familiar twain of faces.  He was not disappointed, as the car swung into Broadway.

“Look—­those two men have been following me wherever I have gone.  They are a pair of old-fashioned pirates.  Don’t forget their faces!”

CHAPTER IX

IN THE GARDEN OF TEMPTATION

Their destination, one of the score of tango tea-rooms which had sprung to mushroom popularity within the year, was soon reached.  Leaning heavily upon his stick, limping like his aged model, and spluttering impatiently, Shirley was assisted by the uniformed door man into the lobby.  Helene followed meekly.  Four hat boys from the check-room made the conventional scramble for his greatcoat, hat and stick, nearly upsetting him in their eagerness.  Then Shirley led the way into the half light of the tropical, indoor garden, picking a way through the tables to a distant wall seat, embowered with electric grapes and artificial vines.