in the conversation—prepared conversation, some of it! He could imagine the commodore leading little rivulets of talk into certain channels for his benefit. Dan would see to it that they would ask him (Bob) questions, embarrassing ones. That “advice” dad had given him weighed on Bob like a nightmare. Suppose—ghastly thought!—truth compelled him ever to speak of that? And to her! A shiver ran down Bob’s backbone. Nearer she drew—nearer—while Bob gazed as if fascinated, full of rapturous, paradoxical dread. Now the commodore was almost upon her when—

Ah, what was that? An open elevator?—people going in?—She, too,—those with her—Yes—click! a closed door! The radiant vision had vanished, was going upward; Bob breathed again. Think of being even paradoxically glad at witnessing her disappear! Bob ceased now to think; stood as in a trance.

“Why do people go to concerts?” said the commodore in aggrieved tones. “Some queen, that!”

“And got the rocks—or stocks!” from Dickie. “Owns about three of those railroads that are going a-begging nowadays.”

“Wake up, Bobbie!” some one now addressed that abstracted individual.

Bob shook himself.

“Old friend of yours, Miss Gwendoline Gerald, I believe?” said the commodore significantly.

“Yes; I’ve known Miss Gerald for some time,” said Bob coldly.

“‘Known for some time’—” mimicked the commodore. “Phlegmatic dog! Well, what shall we do now?”

“Hang around until the concert’s over?” suggested Dickie.

“Hang around nothing!” said the commodore. “It’s one of those classical high-jinks.” Disgustedly. “Lasts so late the sufferers haven’t time for anything after it’s over. Just enough energy left to stagger to their cars and fall over in a comatose condition.”

“Suppose we could go to the bar?”

“Naughty! Naughty!” A sprightly voice interrupted.

The commodore wheeled. “Mrs. Ralston!” he exclaimed gladly.

It was the gorgeous lady of the gorgeous car.

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