Her friends seemed to enjoy themselves, and he took no more trouble with them. He noticed that they laughed, drank, and danced. Later there was an animated discussion; he could see that from the floor as he sang. Constance Corthwaite’s friends were arguing with her. They leaned toward her, protesting. The attitudes were unmistakable. Apparently unmoved, she blew smoke from her nostrils and with a wave of her cigarette turned their attention back to him. They watched him, shrewdly, for a few seconds, and then went off into quiet laughter. Laughter at some joke which that long-eyed woman had designed. From the floor, singing, he saw all this, for his early training had made him observant. As Constance was leaving she beckoned to him. She stood at the door, wrapped in her dark cloak. He went out at her nod, with alacrity. As he went he wondered what she wanted and decided definitely that he did not like her. “Too damned ritzy,” and he thought her ugly and badly dressed, too, but after all she was Constance Corthwaite. Probably she had fallen for him. Most of ’em did. She recognized his approach with the smallest possible nod. “Thank you for the songs. We enjoyed them. As I can’t watch you ‘knock ’em off their seats’ at the Palace, I suggest that you come down to my place in the country next week-end and knock us off our seats down there.” She was asking him to visit her. So she _had_ fallen for him. They all did. He was inundated with female attentions. But a visit to the Corthwaite place! Well, he had arrived! He accepted blandly. * * * * * Mommer and Lena helped him pack. They came from their apartment across the hall to his and favoured him with their advice and assistance. It was a lengthy business. Before he got off, the plush splendour of his rooms was strewn with discarded clothing. “Take your dress suit, Hermie,” advised his mother. “Your new suit for those swells is none too good.” “Wear your lavender sport suit for the golfing.” “A bathing suit.” “Your silk socks, Hermie. Hermie, you have forgot your silk socks, Hermie.” “The lavender suit, Hermie.” * * * * * He got off at last. His big car seemed to eat the miles, exaltation keeping time to the healthy song of his motor. He went swiftly through the mean towns squatting on the island’s edge out to the rolling hills of the North Shore. He dreamed dreams. Now a new billing suggested itself. “Hal Levering--Society’s Favourite”--or better, “Hal Levering, Society’s Favoured Comedian.” In his mind’s eye he could see an article in _Vanity Fair_--perhaps--“Hal Levering, the erstwhile mammy songster a belated society discovery.” He turned the nose of the car into the Corthwaite gates and at a reduced speed moved up the driveway. In spite of the explicit directions given him by the policeman in Jonestown, he wasn’t at all sure that this was the place.