coming, and Frederick Allen (one of their friends who
had taken a fancy to Eugene), Arturo Scalchero is going to sing and
Bonavita to play." Scalchero was none other than Arthur Skalger, of Port
Jervis, New Jersey, but he assumed this corruption of his name in Italy
to help him to success. Bonavita was truly a Spanish pianist of some
repute who was flattered to be invited to Eugene's home.

"Well, I don't care much about it," replied Eugene. "But I will come."

He frequently felt that afternoon teas and receptions were ridiculous
affairs, and that he had far better be in his office attending to his
multitudinous duties. Still he did leave early, and at five-thirty was
ushered into a great roomful of chattering, gesticulating, laughing
people. A song by Florence Reel had just been concluded. Like all girls
of ambition, vivacity and imagination, she took an interest in Eugene,
for in his smiling face she found a responsive gleam.

"Oh, Mr. Witla!" she exclaimed. "Now here you are and you just missed my
song. And I wanted you to hear it, too."

"Don't grieve, Florrie," he said familiarly, holding her hand and
looking momentarily in her eyes. "You're going to sing it again for me.
I heard part of it as I came up on the elevator." He relinquished her
hand. "Why, Mrs. Dale! Delighted, I'm sure. So nice of you. And Arturo
Scalchero--hullo, Skalger, you old frost! Where'd you get the Italian
name? Bonavita! Fine! Am I going to hear you play? All over? Alas!
Marjorie Mac Tennan! Gee, but you look sweet! If Mrs. Witla weren't
watching me, I'd kiss you. Oh, the pretty bonnet! And Frederick Allen!
My word! What are you trying to grab off, Allen? I'm on to you. No
bluffs! Nix! Nix! Why, Mrs. Schenck--delighted! Angela, why didn't you
tell me Mrs. Schenck was coming? I'd have been home at three."

By this time he had reached the east end of the great studio room,
farthest from the river. Here a tea table was spread with a silver tea
service, and behind it a girl, oval-faced, radiantly healthy, her full
lips parted in a ripe smile, her blue-gray eyes talking pleasure and
satisfaction, her forehead laid about by a silver filigree band, beneath
which her brown chestnut curls protruded. Her hands, Eugene noted, were
plump and fair. She stood erect, assured, with the least touch of
quizzical light in her eye. A white, pink-bordered dress draped her
girlish figure.

"I don't know," he said easily, "but I wager a guess that this is--th