f our musicale," Lily Condor had
explained, "and Flora won't be in shape again for a good three months.
Of course, there isn't anything in it but glory. I'm just one of those
'sweet charity' artists. But I think she is a dear, and I know that
_you_ have influence."

Stillman pretended to be annoyed at Mrs. Condor's assumption that his
word would carry any weight in the matter, but as a matter of fact he
felt pleased in secret masculine fashion. Chancing to pass Flint's
office at the noon hour, he dropped in. It happened that Miss Munch was
standing near the counter, and she answered his inquiries with suave
eagerness.

"Oh, Miss Robson isn't with us any more. She hasn't been here for over
a week--not since her mother was taken sick. Oh, I thought you knew.
You're Mr. Stillman, aren't you? I've heard my cousin, Mrs. Richards,
speak of you. Miss Robson went over to Mr. Flint's on that night of the
storm and she missed the boat or something--_you_ know! And when she got
home next morning she found that her mother had worried herself into a
stroke. They say she is quite helpless.... I'm sure I don't know what
she intends doing. We mailed her check yesterday. It's always hard to
land another position when one is dismissed."

Stillman escaped quickly. Miss Munch's venom was a thing too crude and
unconcealed to face with indifference. Her emphatic "_you_ know" was
pregnant with innuendo and malice. Still, it did not occur to Stillman
that he had any part in Claire Robson's misfortune. But he did know from
Miss Munch's tone that the unfortunate situation, growing out of the
automobile ride from Yolanda to Sausalito, had received due recognition
at the hands of those who made a business of blowing out bubbles of
scandal from the suds of chance. It was useless for him to deny that
Claire Robson from the first had been of more or less interest. She
seemed to rise in such a detached fashion from her environment.

He had to admit, as later he sat in the cloistered silences of his club
library and blew contemplative smoke-rings into the air, that a certain
idle curiosity had been the mainspring of his concern for her. He had
been like a boy who captured a strange butterfly and clapped it under a
glass tumbler where he could watch how easily it would adapt itself to
its new surroundings. But, having caught the butterfly and held it a
brief captive, the dust from its wings still lingered upon the hands
that imprisoned it. He had ma