one condition for membership--to be amusing. She knew every one and no
one knew her. No one knew beyond the vaguest rumors her history or her
means. No one had ever heard of a Mr. Kildair. There was always about
her a certain defensive reserve the moment the limits of
acquaintanceship had been reached. She had a certain amount of money,
she knew a certain number of men in Wall Street affairs and her studio
was furnished with taste and even distinction. She was of any age. She
might have suffered everything or nothing at all. In this mingled
society her invitations were eagerly sought, her dinners were
spontaneous, and the discussions, though gay and usually daring, were
invariably under the control of wit and good taste.

On the Sunday night of this adventure she had, according to her
invariable custom, sent away her Japanese butler and invited to an
informal chafing-dish supper seven of her more congenial friends, all of
whom, as much as could be said of any one, were habitués of the studio.

At seven o'clock, having finished dressing, she put in order her
bedroom, which formed a sort of free passage between the studio and a
small dining room to the kitchen beyond. Then, going into the studio,
she lit a wax taper and was in the act of touching off the brass
candlesticks that lighted the room when three knocks sounded on the door
and a Mr. Flanders, a broker, compact, nervously alive, well groomed,
entered with the informality of assured acquaintance.

"You are early," said Mrs. Kildair, in surprise.

"On the contrary, you are late," said the broker, glancing at his watch.

"Then be a good boy and help me with the candles," she said, giving him