“It isn’t so easy to say airy nothings to an artist, when you know him behind the scenes,” Beatrix said, suddenly shifting the talk back to the point of departure.

“Talk philosophy, then,” Bobby returned.

“But I must say something to him, after he gets through singing; and now that I have seen him, three or four times, I can’t launch into a sea of platitudes.”

“I thought women could always go to sea in a platitude. It is as leaky as a sieve, and not half so likely to upset and leave one floating without any support at all.”

Sally laughed outright.

“Beware of Bobby, when he turns metaphorical! He suggests a second-hand curio shop.”

Lorimer glanced up at her, with a whimsical smile twisting his lips.

“Your own rhetoric isn’t above reproach, Miss Van Osdel. But has it ever occurred to you that Young America has abandoned its sieve for a man of war? I met a callow junior from Harvard, the other day, and by way of making polite conversation, I asked him to suggest a clever subject for a debate. He promptly told me that at his eating club they had been discussing the origins of morality.”

Bobby whistled, to the huge delight of the butler. That factotum revelled in the pranks of “Master Bobby” who had upset his dignity at least once a week for the past fifteen years.

“In our time we took our pleasures less sadly, Lorimer. What are we all coming to?”

“To congenital senility.”

“That is nothing more nor less than the frugal trick of making both ends meet,” Sally interpolated.

“But what shall I say to Mr. Thayer?” Beatrix reiterated.

“That it is a pleasant evening.”

“That you hope he isn’t very tired with singing so much,” Bobby and Sally suggested in the same breath.

Beatrix made a little gesture of scorn.

“It is your turn, Mr. Lorimer. You know him better than the rest of us. What shall you say to him?”

“I know him so well that I rarely talk to him about his singing,” Lorimer replied, with sudden gravity. “Thayer is too large a man to smack his lips over sugar-plums. He knows exactly what I think of his voice, that it is one of the best baritone voices I have ever heard. He also knows that I am perfectly aware of the fact when he sings unusually badly or unusually well. Under those conditions, there is no especial need of our discussing the matter. One can have reservations with one’s friends, you know.” As he spoke, his eyes met those of Beatrix, and a smile lighted his gravity.

At a first glance, Sidney Lorimer produced the impression of being a remarkably handsome man. The second glance, while it strengthened the impression, nevertheless set one wondering what had created it. His figure, his features, his coloring were all good, yet they were in no way remarkable. A wiry, nervous, clean-cut man, with brown hair and eyes, a slim, straight nose, and a well-set head, he would have commanded little attention had it not been for the nameless stamp set upon him by his training at an English public-school. It is impossible to analyze this stamp, yet it exists and insists upon recognition. Political life had called the elder Lorimer to England, and he had judged it better to take his only child with him and drop him into Eton than to leave him in America and send him to St. Paul’s. He did it as a matter of convenience, not of theory; but when his boy was ready for a Yale diploma, the father confessed to himself that he was pleased with the result of the experiment. Young Lorimer would never be an important factor in the world’s development; but he was an uncommonly attractive fellow, and could hold his own in any position where chance would be likely to place him. Only his lower lip betrayed the fact that his mother had been a woman of uncurbed nerves.

It was the evening of the twentieth, and Lorimer was distinctly nervous. He liked Arlt and was anxious for his success; but his anxiety for Arlt was as nothing in comparison with that which he felt for Thayer, to whom he gave the adoration that a weak man sometimes offers to one immeasurably his superior. Probably Lorimer’s whole life would contain no better year than the one he had spent with Thayer in Berlin. Thayer’s influence was strongly good, and Lorimer was of plastic material. It is doubtful whether Lorimer realized this influence; yet he was genuinely delighted to have Thayer within easy reach once more, genuinely wishful to have Thayer’s American debut such an unqualified success that hereafter he would regard New York as his professional home.

Lorimer rarely was garrulous; he was unusually silent during the long drive to the Lloyd Avalons’s. It was his first introduction to the pseudo-fashionable world, for his own family had been of conservative stock, and Beatrix and Bobby had been the first of the Danes to break down the barriers of their own exclusive set. To be sure, he realized that in a city like New York it was quite possible for circles of equal choiceness to exist tangent to each other, yet in mutual ignorance of one another; but his years abroad in slower-moving countries had not prepared him for the countless agile performers clambering up and down over the social trapeze. In his father’s day, society had stood on an elevated platform and watched the performers as they played leap-frog on the ground. The performers had been as agile then as now; but their agility had been free from any danger of a tumble. Between the ground and the platform, there is no place of permanent rest. One must keep moving, or else be pushed to the ground.

As a rule, people forgot that there was a Mr. Lloyd Avalons. He was a little man with an imperial, and a total incapacity for telling the truth. In that, he was inferior to his wife in point of social evolution, for she had learned, from certain episodes which still filled her with mortification, that fibbing was bad form. To Mrs. Lloyd Avalons, her husband was a mere cipher. Placed before her, he added nothing to her value; placed after and in the background, he multiplied her importance tenfold. There were certain privileges accruing to a woman with a husband, certain immunities that followed in the train of matrimony. Mrs. Lloyd Avalons was quite willing to include the word obey in the marriage service; she had a distinct choice in regard to whom it should refer.

To-night, Lloyd Avalons stood slightly in the rear of the elbow of his wife who, resplendent in pale gray velvet and emeralds, was welcoming her guests on the threshold of the music-room. Her gray eyes were shining with a greenish light that matched the emeralds, for her lips were set in a conventional smile, and there must be some escape for her delight, as she counted over the tale of guests and recognized individuals of many a named species from the garden of society. All in all, this was the best success she had as yet attained.

She greeted Beatrix effusively, and cast a coy glance at Lorimer while she murmured a few words of congratulation. Then she fell a victim to one of Bobby’s quibbles, and while she was struggling to see the point of his joke, the others made their escape.

“At least, the architect knew what he was about,” Lorimer remarked to Beatrix, as they took their seats. “Thayer can’t complain of the acoustic effects of the place.”

“When have you seen him?”

“Just before dinner. He was in superb voice then, and a fairly good mood.”

“Isn’t he always?” she questioned idly, as she nodded to an acquaintance in the next row of chairs.

“Not always. As a rule, he is the best-tempered fellow in the world. Once in a while, though, he wraps himself up in his dignity and stalks about like an Indian brave in his best Navajo blanket. Nobody ever knows what is the reason, nor when he will go off into a Mood. It makes him an uncertain quantity. For my part, I would rather a man would swear and get it over with.” Lorimer spoke easily. Unlike Thayer, he never collided with the angles of his own temperament.

“What does it do to his singing?”

“Depends on one’s taste. I like it, myself, as I like a high-flavored cheese. People who pin their faith to Mendelssohn might be a little over-powered. Fact is, there is a strange streak in Thayer’s make-up. I can’t account for him at all.”

“What is the use of trying? Aren’t one’s friends immune from analysis?”

“I don’t care to try. I don’t want to account for him; he is too large for that. I wish you might know him; but you never will. He’s not a woman’s man in the least.”

Beatrix was silent for a moment. Involuntarily she was making a swift comparison of the way in which the two men spoke of each other. Lorimer’s praise had been full of half-suppressed reservations. Thayer had made no reservations, he had scarcely uttered a word of praise, yet his hastily-drawn picture of Lorimer’s connection with the Arlts had proved a determining factor in her life. It had been a new phase of Lorimer’s character which Thayer had presented. It had revealed him in a new light and one infinitely more likable than any she had yet known. The Lorimer she had met, had been fascinating and a bit snobbish. The friend of the Arlts was altogether lovable. It takes greater tact and staying power to make friends outside one’s social grade than in it. People suspect the motives of those who are crossing the boundaries between caste and caste; yet the Arlts had trusted Lorimer completely.

Beatrix had remained thoughtful for some time after Thayer’s departure. Lorimer had called, that same night. His coming had been unexpected; it had taken Beatrix off her guard. She had been unfeignedly glad to see him, for his ten-days’ absence from her life had been unprecedented in their acquaintance. The world is wide, yet, owing to some strange law of attraction, one invariably seems to meet the same people everywhere. Beatrix had greeted Lorimer more eagerly than she had been aware. She had tried in vain to keep the fact of the Forbes supper uppermost in her mind. Instead, it slid into the background, and its place had been taken by the thought of Lorimer’s probable feelings when he received the smoking cap from the hands of Katarina Arlt. And the evening had hurried away from her. When it had gone, she had realized with a sudden shock that her girlhood was ended. She was the plighted bride of Sidney Lorimer, and, distrustful of her own mental grasp of the fact, she had ruthlessly waked up her mother to tell her what had occurred. Later, she had not understood the motive which had led her to her mother’s room. As a rule, she was self-reliant, and adjusted herself to a crisis without caring to talk it over. For the once, however, she felt the need of being strengthened by the enthusiastic delight of Mrs. Dane whose sentimental hopes had centered in Lorimer from the hour of his introduction to her only child.

All this had passed in review through Beatrix’s mind, and it seemed long to her since Lorimer’s last words, when he said,

“Don’t think I am depreciating Thayer, Beatrix. He is one of the finest fellows who ever came out of the Creator’s hands. In his worst moods, he is away ahead of most of the men one meets. Some day, I hope you may know him for what he really is.”

There was true generosity underlying Lorimer’s frank words. He was still smarting from his contact with Thayer, that afternoon, for Thayer had heard of a dinner at the club, on the previous night, and had spoken a quiet warning. It was only such a warning as he had given, a dozen times before; he knew just how Lorimer would resent it, then accept it, and it would have made no difference to him, could he have foreseen that, in his resentment, Lorimer’s words to Beatrix would be slightly tinged with aloes. It is not certain that, foreseeing, he would have cared. Beatrix was nothing to him; of Lorimer he was strangely fond.

Beatrix had felt some curiosity as to the effect Thayer’s voice might have upon her. Familiarity in all truth does breed contempt, and a second hearing often proves a disappointment. For Lorimer’s sake, she was anxious to enjoy the recital, and she drew a quick, nervous breath as Thayer, followed by Arlt, came striding out across the little stage with the same unconscious ease with which he had crossed her parlor, the week before. As he waited for Arlt to seat himself, he glanced about the room, his practised eye measuring its size and the probable nature of his audience. For an instant, his glance rested upon Beatrix and Lorimer, and he gave a slight smile of recognition. Then his shoulders straightened and he came to attention, as Arlt struck the opening chord of his accompaniment.

He had chosen to begin his programme, that night, with the Infelice for, in spite of its Verdiism, it had been a favorite of his old master in Berlin. Before he had sung a dozen notes, Beatrix, bending forward, was listening with parted lips and flushing cheeks. Of Thayer as a man who had dallied with one of her cups of tea, she took no account; but his voice, sweet and flexible, was tugging at her nerves and setting them vibrating with its note of passionate sadness. Then, gathering power and intensity, it swept its hearers along upon its furious tempest; yet, as she listened, Beatrix felt herself inspired for, underneath it all, there was the same throbbing, insistent note which seemed to assure her that the singer had hoped and lost and fought and conquered, that he knew all about it, himself.

Lorimer nodded contentedly at the stage, as Thayer ended his song.

“That’s all right; but they would better save their strength, for he never gives an encore for the first number. What do you think of Thayer now, Beatrix?”

She caught her breath sharply.

“That I should be a better woman, if I could hear him sing often.”

“There’s something in what you say. He makes me feel it, too. I never have heard him sing better, though he always does that song well. He told me once that he felt possessed with the spirit of his own grandfather, whenever he started it. From all signs, his grandfather must have been an intolerable old person to get on with, if he could rage in that fashion.”

“Possibly he had occasion.” Beatrix forced herself to speak lightly, though it was an effort for her to resume the accent and manner which befitted the place.

“Perhaps. He was a Russian musician with a young wife. Now for the Schubert group! Thayer’s reputation is made, though; he can sing through his nose now, and they will think it a beautiful manifestation of individual genius. I only hope that Arlt will do one tenth as well.”

It proved that Arlt did fully six tenths as well, and was applauded to the echo. To the undiscerning ear, he won even more than his share of applause; but Beatrix, her nerves still tense from The Erl-King, felt a difference in the quality of the welcome to the two musicians. The critical few were impartial, and in the case of Arlt they led a wavering fugue of the uncritical many. Arlt was young, small and insignificant. His tailor was not an artist, and Arlt was too palpably conscious that his coat tails demanded respectful care. Society applauded Arlt with punctilious courtesy; but it promptly took Thayer to its bosom and caressed him with enthusiasm.

Late in the evening, Beatrix brought her father to the corner where Thayer, with Arlt beside him, was still holding a sort of court, and the four of them were talking quietly when Mrs. Stanley came pushing her way towards them.

“I must add my word of congratulation, Mr. Thayer,” she said, as she graciously offered him a pudgy bundle of white kid fingers. “You have made a wonderful success, and it won’t be long before you have New York at your feet.”

Thayer glanced down at his patent leather shoes.

“It would be a good deal in the way, Mrs. Stanley. Let us hope it will stay where it belongs,” he answered gravely.

“How ungrateful you artists are! But I shall always be so glad and proud to think that your first song in New York was in my house.”

“But it wasn’t.”

Her face fell.

“I thought Wasn’t that your first recital? I am sure you said ”

His smile went no further than his lips, for his clear gray eyes appeared to be taking her mental and spiritual measure, with some little disappointment at the result.

“It was my first recital, Mrs. Stanley; but not my first song. I sang German folk songs to Arlt’s landlady, half the afternoon before. You remember Mr. Arlt, I think.”

She glanced around with a carelessness which ignored the hand that the boy shyly extended towards her.

“Oh, yes, very pleased,” she said vaguely. Then, with a resumption of her former manner, she turned back to Thayer. “And I thought you promised to drop in for a cup of tea, some Thursday, Mr. Thayer.”

Beatrix was deaf to his answer. She had turned to Arlt who, scarlet with hurt and anger, stood alone in his corner by the piano.

“Mr. Arlt,” she said gayly; “it is very warm here, and I know where they keep the frappe. Shall we leave my father here, and run off in search of some goodies? You ought to be hungry, after playing for two hours. Come!”

And Arlt, surprised at the sudden winning intonations which had crept into her voice, dodged around the portly back of Mrs. Stanley and followed Beatrix out of the room. For the moment, the haughty woman had changed to a jovial, friendly girl, no more awe-inspiring than Katarina, in spite of her wonderful gown and the fluffy white thing in her hair; and the artist, in his turn, changed into a normal hungry boy, as he followed her away.

So absorbed were they in each other that they failed to see Bobby Dane who met them upon the threshold, on his way to join the group they had just left.

“Beg pardon, Thayer; but can I speak to you for a moment?” he said abruptly.

His uncle turned to Mrs. Stanley with old-fashioned pomposity.

“May I have the pleasure of taking you to the dining-room?” he asked.

“What is it, Dane?” Thayer asked, as soon as they were alone, for Bobby’s face showed that something was amiss.

“It’s Lorimer in the smoking-room. That beast of a Lloyd Avalons has opened a perfect bar in there, and and Lorimer is making a bit of a cad of himself,” Bobby confessed reluctantly. “I tried to get him away; but he wouldn’t come, and I thought perhaps you could start him. It’s not that he is drunk, only he is talking rather too much, and I want to get him off before Beatrix gets wind of it. You know girls ”

“I know,” Thayer assented gravely. “I’ll see what I can do with him.”