he secretary to some
institution or other would run in and offer them refreshments, and tell
them in what order they were to appear. To-night there was no departure
from the ordinary course of things, except that there was slightly more
stir. The dinner was a larger one than usual. It came to Beatrice's turn
very soon after their arrival, and Tavernake, squeezing his way a few
steps into the dining-room, stood with the waiters against the wall.
He looked with curious eyes upon a scene with which he had no manner of
sympathy.

A hundred or so of men had dined together in the cause of some charity.
The odor of their dinner, mingled with the more aromatic perfume of the
tobacco smoke which was already ascending in little blue clouds from the
various tables, hung about the over-heated room, seeming, indeed, the
fitting atmosphere for the long rows of guests. The majority of them
were in a state of expansiveness. Their faces were redder than when they
had sat down; a certain stiffness had departed from their shirt-fronts
and their manners; their faces were flushed, their eyes watery. There
were a few exceptions--paler-faced men who sat there with the air of
endeavoring to bring themselves into accord with surroundings in which
they had no real concern. Two of these looked up with interest at the
first note of Beatrice's song. The one was sitting within a few places
of the chairman, and he was too far away for his little start to be
noticed by either Tavernake or Beatrice. The nearer one, however,
Tavernake happened to be watching, and he saw the change in his
expression. The man was, in his way, ugly. His face was certainly not a
good one, although he did not appear to share the immediate weaknesses
of his neighbors. To every note of the song he listened intently. When
it was over, he rose and came toward Tavernake.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "but did I not see you come in with the
young lady who has just been singing?"

"You may have," Tavernake answered. "I certainly did come with her."

"May I ask if you are related to her?"

Tavernake had got over his hesitation in replying to such questions, by
now. He answered promptly.

"I am her brother," he declared.

The man produced a card.

"Please introduce me to her," he begged, laconically.

"Why should I?" Tavernake asked. "I have no reason to suppose that she
desires to know you."

The man stared at him for a moment, and then laughed.

"Well," he said, "you