Joan had seated herself facing the balcony; but in spite of the concentrated gaze of all the balcony lunchers on herself and her friends she did not look up or appear to be aware that there was a balcony. Hugh realized, as freshly, almost, as if he had never done so before, how distinguished and unusual as well as beautiful Joan was. Her face glowed with a purpose and light no other face in that crowded room possessed. Perhaps it was the effect of the brilliant large eyes set wide under the coppery-winged sweep of her brows. To-day the burnished hair was concealed under a purple hat so _à la mode_ that not a glimmer of it showed at brow or cheek. Few women could wear a hat so daring as that and preserve at the same time a radiant and feminine beauty. And when Joan spoke, leaning across the table toward Ariel, her lips moved with such beauty of precision that one, without need to hear, knew that her enunciation was perfect. “Heavens! Joan Nevin is a stunning creature,” Brenda ejaculated, all her special gift of taste behind the generous words. “So it’s the great Michael Schwankovsky who invested in the floral piece. Well, if any one in New York can afford it with the stock market what it is, I suppose he can. Big blustering Midas! And it’s Joan he’s blustering around to-day. But that’s quite on the books, isn’t it? The little man, the poor dear, is Charlie Frye. Nobody of any importance, but amiable, and surprisingly often seen in company with the great. The other person—” Brenda assumed her lorgnette, a property she used with discretion and undeniable distinction for one so young,—“The other person—Lady? Child? Flapper? Russian Princess? Can’t make out _what_ she is, and I don’t know who she is. Funny.” “That’s Ariel Clare. And the party’s in her honor, not Joan’s. Because it’s her birthday,” Hugh informed his companion—diffidently. Ariel, thin of cheek and shoulders, emerging with Frye’s help at this instant from her coat of a princess, was pale and small in contrast with the radiant Joan. Meager. Thin. Grandam was certainly—Hugh was sure of it—letting her work far too hard. And so this was Charlie Frye! But what was Brenda Loring saying with so much animation as she waved a presumptuously impatient waiter back from Hugh’s elbow. “Not really! Ariel Clare! The dancer! But how too deliciously interesting to have this early view of her, ahead of the mob. Getting within radius of Joan, though, is as good as being behind the scenes, isn’t it! She’s so frightfully in on everything! But this time you’ve beat Joan. You know the model intimately. She works for you, doesn’t she? Joan’s awfully entertaining on the subject. She declares it’s so typical—your keeping the girl on in that position at Wild Acres now that Schwankovsky himself is her patron, and the exhibition’s going to make her famous. Joan thinks your Philistinism delightful. But of course you’re not so insensible as Joan fondly imagines! I should see through you!”