Cheers and a spatter of applause greeted their descent and three tables claimed their company but Cynthia looked around and made a quick decision. In a far corner sat Harvey O’Neill, as the Tin Woodman, and Johnnie Graham, in sackcloth and straw, presumably a scarecrow. Miss Mitchall needed what only an Irish tongue could supply. Cynthia steered toward the small table. “May I introduce the Green Witch of Greenwich Village?” sang Cynthia above the hubbub. “Did you know that Green Witches had special magic and charms, much stronger than black and white ones?” “Special charms, certainly,” agreed the Irishman. “Come and cast a spell on me, Miss Witch,” and he pulled out a chair for her. Cynthia took the one next to Johnnie. “Smart of you,” he whispered in her ear, “to give her a costume that went with her specs. It’s one of the best on the floor.” There was an almost continual pageant down the wide stairs. Stasia made her entrance alone and effectively in the long, slinky costume of a modern French doll. From the bright orange wig of knitted yarn, through the high bodice and long full skirt of brilliant reds and raw blues to the absurdly high heeled slippers of green satin and the painted circles on her cheeks beneath the wide lashed baby stare, she was perfect in every detail. Even to a price tag on her shoulder stating “twenty five francs.” She was followed by a Spanish señorita on the arm of a George Belchers, charlady, red nosed, apron-garbed, three dingy violets nodding in his bonnet as he stumbled apologetically, paused to mop up the steps before the señorita and dramatized the amusing entrance. How she hated to have this end, Cynthia thought. Paris, surely, wasn’t going to be half so much fun. And never to see any of these nice people again. ... Miss Mitchall for instance. It didn’t seem possible that you could get to know a person so well and then let them slip out of your life. Stasia was going to stay in Cherbourg for a week. Johnnie ... “Where do you go, Johnnie?” she asked. “Straight through Paris and down to Provence. I’m studying the poetry of Mistral, who, if you don’t happen to know, was the greatest poet of southern France. Why?” But she turned to O’Neill. “And you’re going to Ireland, aren’t you?” “Yes. Better come along,” he suggested, “it’s a bit of heaven.” “Oh yes, there’s a song about that, isn’t there,” she laughed. Weren’t any of these people going to be in Paris? Suppose she couldn’t get in touch with the editor she had come to see? Suppose the job didn’t materialize? Suppose ... well, these were nice cheerful meditations to have in the middle of a party! She bet Miss Mitchall wasn’t harboring any such gloomy thoughts. Suddenly Cynthia wished there was some way, some nice, tactful, subtle manner in which she could help the little governess without her knowing it. But a loan was out of the question. Cynthia herself hadn’t much more than the price of a ticket home. And you don’t pick up purses in mid ocean.