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 was bringing the Italian singer to meet Mignon Mangini. Guests were seeking comfortable seats in anticipation of uncomfortable music. Grover departed for an obscure corner. His second drink had found its mark, and he was now solacing himself with rich visions. The girl in nasturtium velvet might be beyond his reach, but even if he never spoke to her again she would remain as a symbolic summit in his career. He saw himself as an old man of seventy, the Grover Thanet, still painting pictures which were too subtle for the stupid public. There has been a great disappointment in his life, onlookers were whispering; but he never speaks about it.

Olga had tucked herself into one of the big sofas, and Peñaverde was telling her stories to which she responded with an occasional smile, the little folds on guard as ever.

Floss at length effected a hush. Mamie had bent one ankle and was working the muscles of her cheeks. This, Grover presumed, was to limber up her sinuses; he wasn't quite sure where her sinuses were, but he had heard Mamie talk about them, and about Emma Eames's. All he knew was that they resonated—like anything! The most professional touch of all was the spasmodic jerk by which Mamie locked her diaphragm, to ensure a reservoir of wind, and as she locked it her jaw became equally locked in an unearthly smile.

She had elected to try a Wagner aria on Signor Tamponi. As Grover listened, all he could think of