“It’s your turn to make a concession. On our way to the toy-shop, stop in with me at a showing of underwear at Seff’s. It lasts only from twelve to one and I’ll miss it if I go further down town. Even puritanical you may be amused. Seff is rather sensational in his advertising, but he does import lovely things. Here is the invitation for the latest of his shows. Do you mind?” She handed him a card, engraved and dictioned in the very best form. She looked rather pleased than otherwise at the manner of her husband’s consent. “How like you, Catherine, to make your concessions C. O. D.! For Jack’s sake, I shall try not to ‘mind.’” A flutter of interest greeted the Cabot’s appearance on the top floor of the lingerie establishment, for no more discussed pair trod the made-up scenery of the ways and by-ways of Gotham’s rich. Catherine, despite the irregularity of that short upper lip and the tortured, metallic brilliancy of the yellow of her hair and the demand for public notice made by her clothes, often was pronounced the most beautiful matron “among those present”; at least, always was conspicuous. To-day her perquisitory air of excelling even her splendid mink coat won her distinction in the fashionable gathering of many women and a few men. John--as his wife was given to explaining--she had married for his looks. She called him the “handsomest unhandsome man” she knew. Tall, clean-shaved, black-haired, with dark eyes of a singular intensity, he wore a manner as unpretentious as his clothes. This was heightened to-day by an air of detachment from the enforced situation. Above greetings and introductions, tintillated comment over the setting of Seff’s top floor. Arranged as a miniature auditorium, its rows of ashwood chairs faced a small stage, equipped with footlights. Wrought on the gray velvet curtain that concealed the exact nature of this adventure in advertising was the title-- THE LITTLE OLD LADY OF LORRAINE At the twelfth chime of a concealed clock, an orchestral whisper of the _Marseillaise_ caused the audience, creatures of habit, to seek their places. John Cabot, although offended as always by the commercialization of patriotism in cafés and music halls and the like, stood in front of the prominent chairs to which an usher had led his wife and himself. Those about him also stood, if with treasonable sighs; as the music died away relievedly sank into their chairs. The curtain parted. Vincent Seff appeared and lifted the right of his artistic hands. “Patrons--may I say friends?” he began when their mannerly palm-patting had ceased.