"I had to see Drene--that's why we are late," explained Guilder.
"We're ready to go ahead and let your contracts for you--"

"Drene?" interrupted Graylock, looking straight at Guilder with a
curious and staring intensity. "Why drag Drene into an excuse?"

"Because we went to his studio," said Guilder. "Now about letting
the contracts--"

"Were you at Drene's studio?"

"Yes. He's doing the groups for the new opera for us."

Quair, watching Graylock, was seized with a malicious impulse:

"Neat little skirt he has up there--that White girl," he remarked,
seating himself on Graylock's polished table.

A dull flush stained Graylock's cheekbones, and his keen eyes turned
on Quair. The latter lighted a cigarette, expelled the smoke in two
thin streams from his abnormally narrow nostrils.

"Some skirt," he repeated. "And it looks as though old Drene had
her number--"

Guilder's level voice interrupted:

"The contracts are ready to be--"

But Graylock, not heeding, and perhaps not hearing, and looking all