“How d’ye do?” said Miss Corthwaite. She did not offer to shake hands. “Sorry to be so late. Golf, you know. Did Lake make you comfortable?” With a little wave of a hand she indicated her other guests, who, apparently without seeing him at all, were settling themselves in the low wicker chairs. “Miss Bromley, Mr.--er--Levering.” Miss Bromley, whose sunburned face and quite frankly dirty hands gave evidence that she had played a hard game, indeed, acknowledged the introduction by not the faintest flicker of an eye. She was seemingly impervious to introductions. Her bow was not to be considered as directed at him at all. She merely happened to be bowing at that moment. Miss Paine and Mrs. Douglass and an Englishwoman, Lady Greville, to whom he was in turn presented, acknowledged his presence with equal enthusiasm. The men were more cordial, “My cousin, Mr. Herton, Lord Greville, Mr. Paine, Mr. Taylor, Mr. Valentine.” Levering instantly assumed the genial air of the club. That air, half ingratiating, half bold, wholly impudent. From his smiling lips to the bob of the little blue tassels that held up his blue golf stockings, he radiated cordiality. They stayed out on the porch for a long time, discussing their golf and the long cold drinks. Levering, whose ignorance of the game was abysmal, and whose drink was finished, found himself rather out of this. Sitting as he was in the centre of the group, it seemed as though he were encircled by silence, while beyond there went on a very animated chatter. And as the dusk slid over them he was conscious of being lonelier than he had ever been in his life. After dinner that night things picked up a bit. They led him to the piano and settled themselves expectantly around the room waiting to be entertained. They were. He sang them new popular songs and old songs that he had written himself, and he “got them” as he always got them at the Club Levering. He gave them pathos for a finale, “When My Little Baby Boy Lisps His Prayers at Twilight,” and as an encore, “Mamma, Sweet Mamma,” in his rich tenor, “Please don’t hold out on m-e-e.” Miss Bromley and Mr. Taylor were inspired to do an apache dance. Lady Greville came over to him. “How quaint!” she said in her staccato voice and clipped pronunciation that he found difficult to understand. “Rippin’--teach it me, won’t you?” He made room for her on the piano bench. “See--like this--Ma-ma--sweet Mama--” she picked out the treble with clever trained fingers. In a moment she was playing it very well. “You’re some kid at the piano yourself, ain’t you?” he said enthusiastically, boldly bending his head to look in her eyes. “But you haven’t got it quite. Don’t play it like grand opera--see. It’s got a wow--like this--SWEET MAMA!” From a corner Constance Corthwaite watched them with amusement. She looked like a cat luxuriously gorging itself with cream. There was on her face exactly that complacent, contented, and cynical expression.