“Wake up, Bobbie!” some one now addressed that abstracted individual. Bob shook himself. “Old friend of yours, Miss Gwendoline Gerald, I believe?” said the commodore significantly. “Yes; I’ve known Miss Gerald for some time,” said Bob coldly. “‘Known for some time’—” mimicked the commodore. “Phlegmatic dog! Well, what shall we do now?” “Hang around until the concert’s over?” suggested Dickie. “Hang around nothing!” said the commodore. “It’s one of those classical high-jinks.” Disgustedly. “Lasts so late the sufferers haven’t time for anything after it’s over. Just enough energy left to stagger to their cars and fall over in a comatose condition.” “Suppose we _could_ go to the bar?” “Naughty! Naughty!” A sprightly voice interrupted. The commodore wheeled. “Mrs. Ralston!” he exclaimed gladly. It was the gorgeous lady of the gorgeous car. “Just finished my shopping and thought I’d have a look in here,” she said vivaciously. “Concert, I suppose?” from the commodore, jubilantly. “Yes. Dubussy. Don’t you adore Dubussy?” with schoolgirlish enthusiasm. Though almost sixty, she had the manners of a “just-come-out.” “Nothing like it,” lied the commodore. “Ah, then you, too, are a modern?” gushed the lady. “I’m so advanced,” said the commodore, “I can’t keep up with myself.” They laughed. “Ah, silly man!” said the lady’s eyes. Bob gazed at her and the commodore enviously. Oh, to be able once more to prevaricate like that! The commodore had never heard Dubussy in his life. Ragtime and merry hornpipes were his limits. And Mrs. Ralston was going to the concert, it is true, but to hear the music? Ah, no! Her box was a fashionable rendezvous, and from it she could study modernity in hats. Therein, at least, she was a modern of the moderns. She was so advanced, the styles had fairly to trot, or turkey-trot, to keep up with her. “Well,” she said, with that approving glance women usually bestowed upon Bob, “I suppose I mustn’t detain you busy people after that remark I overheard.” “Oh, don’t hurry,” said the commodore hastily. “Between old friends— But I say— By jove, you _are_ looking well. Never saw you looking so young and charming. Never!” It was rather crudely done, but the commodore could say things more bluntly than other people and “get away with them.” He was rather a privileged character. Bob began to breathe hard, having a foretaste of what was to follow. And Mrs. “Willie” Ralston was Miss Gwendoline Gerald’s aunt! No doubt that young lady was up in her aunt’s box at this moment. “Never!” repeated the commodore. “Eh, Bob? Doesn’t look a day over thirty,” with a jovial, freehearted sailor laugh. “Does she now?”