“Oh, yes, dear.  Grimsby was a little poisoned by the salad or something like that:  he was actually disagreeable with me, of all people in the world.  But, I have so many friends that Grimsby does not give me any worry.  He means nothing in my life.  You seemed quite worried over him, though—­”

“Yes, girlie,” was Pinkie’s effort to parry.  “I was upset—­not because he was with you, but to see the old chap showing his age.  His taste has deteriorated so much since he started wearing glasses.  But why don’t you introduce me to your gentleman friend?”

Helene’s faint smile expressed volumes, as she turned toward the modest Shirley with a bow of condescension.  “This is Pinkie, one of old Grimsby’s sweethearts, Mr. Shirley.  I’m sure you’ll like her.”

“Are you Montague Shirley?” demanded the auburn-haired coquette with sudden interest.  As Shirley nodded, she caught his hand with an ardent glance, ogling him impressively, as she continued:  “I’ve heard a lot of you.  I’m just that pleased to meet you!”

An indefinable resentment crept over Helene.  How could this creature of the demi-monde have even distant acquaintance of such a wholesome, superior man as her escort?  The effusiveness was irritating, and the overacted kittenishness of the girl made her sick at heart, although she betrayed no sign of her feeling.  Helene could not understand that despite its mammoth size, New York is relatively provincial in the club and theatrical community, his acquaintanceship numbering into the thousands.  Town Topics, the social gossipers of the newspapers and talkative club men bandied names about in such wise that it was easy for members of Pinkie’s profession to satisfy their hopeful curiosity—­prompted by visions of eventual social conquest on the one hand and a professional desire to memorize street numbers on the Wealth Highway for ultimate financial manipulations.  As one of the richest members of the exclusive bachelor set, Montague Shirley, even unknown to himself, occupied reserved niches in the ambitions of a hundred and one fair plotters!

“You will honor us by taking a drink, Miss Pinkie?” was the criminologist’s courteous overture.

“Pinkie Marlowe, if you want to know the rest of my name.  Yes, I need a little absinthe to wake me up, for I just finished breakfast.  We had a large party last night at Reg Warren’s.  Why don’t you dance with me?”

“The old adage about fat men never being loved applies especially to those who brave the terrors of the fox-trot.  I weigh two hundred, so I wisely sit under the trees and laugh at the others.”

“You two hundred?” and admiration flashed from Pinkie’s emotional eyes, “I don’t believe it.  Why, you’re just right!  I could dance with a man like you all night!”