As they crossed the crowded room toward it, women looked up at Elorn
Sharrow, instantly aware that they saw perfection in hat, gown and
fur, and a face and figure not to be mistaken for any imitation of the
Gotham type.

She wore silver fox--just a stole and muff. Every feminine eye
realised their worth.

When they were seated:

"I want," she said gaily, "some consomme and a salad. You, of course,
require the usual nourishment of the carnivora."

But it seemed not. However, he ordered a high-ball, feeling curiously
depressed. Then he addressed himself to making the hour agreeable,
conscious, probably, that reparation was overdue.

Friends from youthful dancing-class days, these two had plenty to
gossip about; and gradually he found himself drifting back into the
lively, refreshing, piquant intimacy of yesterday. And realised that
it was very welcome.

For, about this girl, always a clean breeze seemed to be blowing; and
the atmosphere invariably braced him up.

And she was always responsive, whether or not agreeing with his views;
and he was usually conscious of being at his best with her. Which
means much to any man.

So she dissected her pear-salad, and he enjoyed his whitebait, and
they chatted away on the old footing, quite oblivious of people around
them.

Elorn was having a very happy time of it. People thought her
captivating now--freckles, mouth and all--and every man there envied
the fortunate young fellow who was receiving such undivided attention
from a girl like this.

But whether in Elorn's heart there really existed all the gaiety that
laughed at him out of her grey eyes, is a question. Because it seemed
to her that, at moments, a recurrent shadow fell across his face. And
there were, now and then, seconds suggesting preoccupation on his
part, when it seemed to her that his gaze grew remote and his smile a
trifle absent-minded.

* * * * *

She was drawing on her gloves; he had scribbled his signature across
the back of the check. Then, as he lifted his head to look for their
waiter, he found himself staring into the brown eyes of Palla Dumont.

The heavy flush burnt his face--burnt into it, so it seemed to him.

She was only two tables distant. When he bowed, her smile was the
slightest; her nod coolly self-possessed. She was wearing orchids.
There seemed to be a girl with her whom he did not know.

Why the sudden encounter should have upset h