first name and began "opening wine" with a lavish hand. He was flirting
in what he conceived to be quite a desperate and depraved manner with
Christabel, and what enhanced his pleasure in this entertainment was that
he did it all right under the nose of the husband, who obviously didn't
mind a bit. He would talk eloquently when he got home, with carefully
selected corroborative details, about the wickedness of New York.

Mary liked the Baldwins. Christabel was on the executive committee of
their Fund and one of the best and steadiest and most sensible supporters
it had. She was a real person. Baldwin, himself, whom she hadn't known so
long nor so well and had regarded from afar as a rather formidable
celebrity, proved on better acquaintance, though witty and sophisticated,
to be as comfortable as an old glove. Altogether they were the nearest
thing to friends that her long sojourn in New York had given her. She had
sometimes thought rather wildly of putting them to the test and seeing
whether they were real friends or not.

To-night, though, even they irritated her. She wished Christabel would
snub that appalling bounder, Black, as he deserved. How could she go on
playing up to him like that! As for Baldwin, she wished he would just
dance with her and not talk. She supposed that the amount of alcohol they
had consumed since seven o'clock had something to do with his verging
upon the vein, the Broadway sentimental vein, that he had got started on
and couldn't seem to let alone.

It wasn't new to Mary. Indeed it was a phenomenon familiarly associated
in her mind with Forty-second Street restaurants and late hours and
strong drink, particularly gin. The crocodile tear for the good woman who
stayed at home; who didn't know; who never, please God! should know. The
tribute to flower-like innocence--the paper flower-like innocence of the