heavy with perfume.  It took Stillman’s influence to rob the hours of their swooning delight by recapturing her self-consciousness.  Things became at once orderly and reasonable.  And as he led her back to their table she felt the flame within cease its flarings and become steady, with a pleasurable glow.  For a moment she felt uneasy, as if she were being trapped by something sweetfully insidious.  Slowly, almost cautiously, she withdrew her arm from his.  He made no comment; it was doubtful if he really noticed her recoil.

* * * * *

Long past its appointed time the hall light in the Robson flat continued to burn dimly.  Mrs. Robson, sleepless and a bit anxious, waited alertly for the sound of Claire’s key in the door.  The welcome click came finally, succeeded by the unmistakable slam of an automobile door and the sharp, quick note of a machine speeding up.

“She’s come home in Stillman’s car,” flashed through Mrs. Robson’s mind, as she sat up in bed.  At that moment Mrs. Finnegan’s cuckoo clock, sounding distinctly through the thin flooring, warbled twice with a voice of friendly betrayal.  “Mercy! it’s two o’clock!” she muttered.  “I wonder if Mrs. Finnegan is awake?...  I do hope she heard the automobile!...”

Seated at the foot of her mother’s bed, Claire tried her best to give a satisfactory report of the evening, but she found that she had overlooked most of the details that her mother found interesting.  Who was there?  What did Mrs. Condor wear?  Did they have an elaborate spread?—­the questions rippled on in an endless flow.

Under the acceleration of Claire’s recital, Mrs. Robson found her experiences at the church reception left far behind.  Even with scant details, Claire had managed to evolve a fascinating picture of a life robbed sufficiently of puritanism to be properly piquant.  There was a tang of the swift, immoral, fascinating ’seventies in Claire’s still cautious reference to champagne and cigarettes.  It was impossible for any San Franciscan who had lived through those splendid madcap bonanza days to deny the lure of gay wickedness.  At least it was hard to keep one’s eyes on a prayer-book while the car of pleasure rattled by.  And a coffee-and-cake social was, after all, a rather tame experience in the face of beverages more sparkling and eatables distinctly enticing....  Of course, if Claire had been introduced to any of these questionable delights by anybody short of a survivor of the Stillman clan, Mrs. Robson might have had a misgiving.  As it was, she was not above a certain forewarning sense that made her say with an air of inconsequence as Claire finished her recital: 

“Mrs. Towne tells me that there is a chance that Mr. Stillman’s wife may get well.  She’s in a private sanitarium, at Livermore, you know.”  She stopped to draw up the bedclothes higher.  “I do hope it’s so!...  But I’m always skeptical about crazy people ever amounting to anything again.  Seems to me they’re better off dead.”