The silence of curiosity greeted his hesitant, yet pleasantly delivered announcement. Only Mrs. Hutton understood his need of courage, his desire for pseudo-sincerity. Virulently though she appeared to condemn him, she evidently wished him to succeed in this, his monster imposition. She had poured the stiff drink which lubricated his voice to that especial smoothness. She stood in the improvised wings, an expression which would have defied a mental analyst hardening her face, as she listened to the delivery of the brief speech which she had helped him prepare. “Always have we admired the lingerie from Lorraine, you and I. But how many of you have stopped to wonder whose hands are responsible for its textile exquisiteness, its chic and the needlework that makes it more lovely than any other in the world? With the many changes which war has wrought, came the fear that our American fair would be reduced to less attractive underwear. Imagine, then, my joy when there arrived recently, unsolicited and in trust, a shipment from my little old lady of Lorraine.” The speaker smiled upon the interested faces below in humid, self-deprecatory appeal. “The pluck as well as the embroidery of this maker was, all through the war, a marvel to the trade. For weeks her home was under enemy fire and the grand dame herself in constant danger of her devoted life. But alone in her cellar workshop she plied her needle as industriously as the _Boches_ laid down their shells. Such heroism swells the heart and chokes the voice.” After a brief substantiating pause, the shopman continued, as if glorying in his show of emotion. “Why did she do it? Not for herself, surely, since the value of her work would have counted little against the loss of her life. Patrons--friends--_she did it for France_. Every mite that she earned was tossed into the coffers of her country. And now that the reconstruction period is on, she still finds work for her withered hands to do--still not for herself--but for the war orphans of the French. Every cent which this shipment yields will be spent on children whom the great struggle has deprived of their natural protectors. Not even a commission will be subtracted. No price has been set upon the things which I am about to show you. I feel that they are priceless. In the name of that little old lady of Lorraine I shall give them to you for what you offer and have no fear for the net results. To show them from boxes on my counters--the mere thought has seemed unworthy the trust placed in me. Will you try to like the more unique method which I have devised?” Bowing deeply and repeatedly in response to perfunctory applause, Vincent Seff backed from view. Orchestral whispers of the _Marche Lorraine_ accompanied a flurry of exclamation. The gray velvet curtain parted; lifted.