And one of these presently opening, he stumbled in with the crush, to hold his breath in vain effort to make himself smaller, gaze in cross-eyed embarrassment at the abundant and nobly undisguised back of the lady of distinction in front of him, and stand on tiptoes to spare those of the man behind him; while the cage descended with maddening deliberation.

If he had but guessed the identity of the man in the rear, the chances are he would have (thoughtlessly of course) brought down his heels upon the other’s toes with all his weight on top of them.  But in his ignorance P. Sybarite was diligent to keep the peace.

Liberated on the lower floor, he found his lackey, resumed hat and coat, and mounted guard in the lobby opposite the elevators.

Miss Blessington procrastinating consistently with her warning, he schooled himself to patience, mildly diverted by inspection of those who passed him, going out.

At the side-street entrance, the crush of ante-room and elevators was duplicated, people jamming the doorway and overflowing to the sidewalk while awaiting their motor-cars and carriages.

But through the Fifth Avenue entrance only the thin stream of those intending to walk was trickling away.

After a time P. Sybarite discovered Mr. Bayard Shaynon not far off, like himself waiting and with a vigilant eye reviewing the departing, the while he talked in close confidence with one who, a stranger to P. Sybarite, was briefly catalogued in his gallery of impressions as “hard-faced, cold-eyed, middle-aged, fine-trained but awkward—­very likely, nouveau riche;” and with this summary, dismissed from the little man’s thoughts.

When idly he glanced that way a second time, the younger Shaynon was alone, and had moved nearer; his countenance impassive, he looked through and beyond P. Sybarite a thought too ostentatiously.  But when eventually Marian appeared, he was instant to her side, forestalling even the alert flanking movement of P. Sybarite.

“You’re quite ready, Marian?” Shaynon asked; and familiarly slipped a guiding hand beneath the arm of the girl—­with admirable effrontery ignoring his earlier dismissal.

On the instant, halting, the girl turned to him a full, cold stare.

“I prefer you do not touch me,” she said clearly, yet in low tones.

“Oh, come!” he laughed uneasily.  “Don’t be foolish—­”

“Did you hear me, Bayard?”

“You’re making a scene—­” the man flashed, colouring darkly.

“And,” P. Sybarite interjected quietly, “I’ll make it worse if you don’t do as Miss Blessington bids you.”

With a shrug, Shaynon removed his hand; but with no other acknowledgment of the little man’s existence, pursued indulgently:  “You have your carriage-call check ready, Marian?  If you’ll let me have it—­”

“Let’s understand one another, once and for all time, Bayard,” the girl interrupted.  “I don’t wish you to take me home.  I prefer to go alone.  Is that clear?  I don’t wish to feel indebted to you for even so slight a service as this,” she added, indicating the slip of pasteboard in her fingers.  “But if Mr. Sybarite will be so kind—­”