They were talking about someone named Coperbesby. He heard Constance Corthwaite’s clear voice say: “He has the most intense sense of race. A fierce and proud belief in the Jew, and if you don’t understand that he is a Jew, that everything he does is racial and unsullied, you can’t understand his music at all.” Levering turned and, blundering against the door, went slowly out of the sun, through the big quiet hall and upstairs. His room had been put in order, and he hated to disarrange it, but he had to hurry, hurry so that he could go quickly, and when you pack in a hurry things get mussed up in spite of you. * * * * * The first thing his cronies at the club asked him was if he had had a good time at the Corthwaite place. Bennie Bernstein, the orchestra leader, Mimi Deland, the specialty dancer, and her lean effeminate partner, surrounded him as soon as he appeared that Monday night. “Did you have a good time?” they asked him. “Sure, fine, fine.” Mimi Deland looked at him curiously. “Well, you don’t look it.” He turned on her furiously. “What do you mean, I don’t look it? What do you want me to do? Sing a song about it?” She shrugged. “No,” simply. “But don’t chew my ear off.” “Say, don’t get the week-end habit,” said Bennie jovially. “That bird you had here last night doing your stuff was awful. We wouldn’t keep open a week with him around.” “Pretty bad, huh?” pleased. “Lousy!” It was time for his first song. As he stepped to the door that led him to the spotlights and the applause, he said over his shoulder, “Don’t worry about me getting the week-end habit; I won’t.” “Gee,” remarked Deland as he slammed the door on them, “I wonder what they did to him. He’s back early, too.” He finished his song, and Bennie dipped his violin to his orchestra, and they began the opening bars of “Abie’s an Irisher Now.” At the sound of the first notes, Levering stiffened as though he had been stung; then, turning on his heel, he called harshly, “Don’t play that song to-night--or ever again.” After which he walked stiffly off the floor, refusing his encore, while the music stopped in the middle of a bar, jarred to a silence that held until Bennie shattered it with his music again. * * * * * It was several weeks before Constance Corthwaite came again to the Club Levering. She was quite sure, of course, when Hal Levering fled from her house without a word to any of them, that he had somehow realized his position; but that was not what had kept her from the club. She had been away. Now, to-night, she was in town again and a little bored, and as Hal Levering had once amused her she came to his place in the hope that he might again. He was a hired performer; if she had hurt his feelings, well--she was sorry, but she had no intention of staying away as long as he could give her a moment’s entertainment.