Then she realized--it was the comedian, Sheik B. Smith. He was talking to her, arguing with her--about something that seemed incredibly funny to every one else, but came to her ears only as a blur of muddled sound. Instinctively she had composed her face at the first shock of the light and now she smiled. It was a gesture of rare self-possession. Into this smile she insinuated a vast impersonality, as if she were unconscious of the light, unconscious of his attempt to play upon her loveliness--but amused at an infinitely removed _him_, whose darts might have been thrown just as successfully at the moon. She was no longer a "lady"--a lady would have been harsh or pitiful or absurd; Rags stripped her attitude to a sheer consciousness of her own impervious beauty, sat there glittering until the comedian began to feel alone as he had never felt alone before. At a signal from him the spot-light was switched suddenly out. The moment was over. The moment was over, the comedian left the floor, and the far-away music began. John leaned toward her. "I'm sorry. There really wasn't anything to do. You were wonderful." She dismissed the incident with a casual laugh--then she started, there were now only two men sitting at the table across the floor. "He's gone!" she exclaimed in quick distress. "Don't worry--he'll be back. He's got to be awfully careful, you see, so he's probably waiting outside with one of his aides until it gets dark again." "Why has he got to be careful?" "Because he's not supposed to be in New York. He's even under one of his second-string names." The lights dimmed again, and almost immediately a tall man appeared out of the darkness and approached their table. "May I introduce myself?" he said rapidly to John in a supercilious British voice. "Lord Charles Este, of Baron Marchbanks' party." He glanced at John closely as if to be sure that he appreciated the significance of the name. John nodded. "That is between ourselves, you understand." "Of course." Rags groped on the table for her untouched champagne, and tipped the glassful down her throat. "Baron Marchbanks requests that your companion will join his party during this number." Both men looked at Rags. There was a moment's pause. "Very well," she said, and glanced back again interrogatively at John. Again he nodded. She rose and with her heart beating wildly threaded the tables, making the half-circuit of the room; then melted, a slim figure in shimmering gold, into the table set in half-darkness. IV The number drew to a close, and John Chestnut sat alone at his table, stirring auxiliary bubbles in his glass of champagne. Just before the lights went on, there was a soft rasp of gold cloth, and Rags, flushed and breathing quickly, sank into her chair. Her eyes were shining with tears. John looked at her moodily. "Well, what did he say?" "He was very quiet." "Didn't he say a word?" Her hand trembled as she took up her glass of champagne.