Even in her grown-up, down-cut evening gown of Nile-green, the girl didn’t look more than fifteen—couldn’t have exceeded nineteen without violating all laws of appearances. Despite her excessive use of make-up—blued-over eyelids, plucked brows, darkened lashes, thick-pasted lips and high-colored cheeks—Cousin “Irene” was quite beautiful. And her manner proved as assertively brilliant as her looks. “Mr. —— Pape?” she demanded thinkingly. “Have I met you before or heard of you——” His hand on his heart, he bowed toward her. “Why-Not Pape.” She stared at him much as she had at the sign. “You don’t claim to be—— Don’t tell me that you are—— Then you’re _not_ a breakfast-food?” “Nothing so enlivening. Not even anti-fat,” he apologized in broad-smiling return. “Oh—_oh_!” she gasped. “You _couldn’t_ have overheard what I said in the car coming down?” “From the curb, Miss Sturgis.” “And you recognized me here in the box and that’s why—Dar-rling—” the endearment was drawled with a brief glance toward her relative—“isn’t that just too _utterly_ romantic?” “I hope, Irene, not _too_ utterly.” Jane’s quiet reply started a smile wreathing around the little circle, evidently of amusement over the child-vamp’s personal assumption of all honors. Samuel Allen interposed in a tone of butter-melting benignity: “Any friend of Miss Lauderdale is more than welcome to our city so far as I am concerned.” “Rawther! And welcome—thrice welcome to our midst,” the madcap again interpolated, seizing one of his large, brown hands in both her white, bejeweled, small ones. “Dee-lighted!” Pape breathed, returning the extra shake. Indeed, he felt delighted. She was _Miss_ Jane Lauderdale, the reserved, long-haired relative of this short-haired enthusiast. And she wore no engagement ring—not any ring on any finger. He could only hope that she had no “understanding” with the good-looking chap ranged beside her. If so, she’d have to be made to mis-understand. She was more flustered over his acceptance of the unconscious invitation of that long, strange, magnified look than she had at first appeared. That showed in the tight clutch of her fingers on her feather fan. And she was taller than he had calculated—just enough shorter than he for ideal dancing. One thing about her he needed to decide, but couldn’t. Did she or did she not know that she didn’t know him? But he must pay attention. Irene, continuing to baby-vamp him, waved him into the chair beside that into which she had sunk. Although of necessity she had dropped his hand she released neither his interest nor his eyes.