Mrs. Robson responded at once to her daughter's command. The two women
rose. By this time the task of securing another place was quite
hopeless. Claire felt that every eye in the room was turned upon them.
Picking their way between a labyrinth of tables and chairs, they
literally were stumbling in the direction of an exit when Claire felt a
hand upon her arm. She turned.

"Pardon me," the man opposite her was saying, "but may I offer you a
place at our table?"

Claire said nothing; she followed blindly. Her mother was close upon her
heels.

The table was a small one, and only two people were occupying it--the
man who had halted Claire, and a woman. The man, standing with one hand
on the chair which he had drawn up for Mrs. Robson, said, simply:

"My name is Stillman, and of course you know Mrs. Condor--the lady who
has just sung for us."

Claire gave a swift, inclusive glance. Yes, it was the same woman who
had attempted to beguile a weary audience from its impending repletion;
at close range one could not escape the intense redness of her hair or
the almost immoral whiteness of the shoulders and arms which she was at
such little pains to conceal.

"Stillman?" Mrs. Robson was fluttering importantly. "Not the old Rincon
Hill family?"

"Yes, the old Rincon Hill family," the man replied.