Cyrus the Gaunt saw very little of her in the brief hour remaining to him. One dance he succeeded in claiming. “You see,” he remarked, “I came to your party anyway, although uninvited.” “I didn't give it. It was a surprise,” she explained. “But the job?” “They've put me on an hour later.” “You still like it?” “It limits one socially more than being a model,” he replied solemnly. “But you are sticking to it?” she persisted. “Oh, yes, I'm sticking to it, all right.” “Even if--No matter what happens?” “What is going to happen?” he asked gravely. “Nothing,” she said hurriedly. “But it's the job for the job's sake with you now, isn't it?” “I like the feel of it, if that's what you mean. The feel of being competent to hold it down.” She nodded with content in her eyes. But he was troubled. “You had something in mind--” he began, when another partner claimed her, while he was dragged off to assist in an improvised glee-club. His time was up all too soon, and without chance of a further word from her, other than a formal farewell. In the little rear hallway whither he had made his way through his protesting fellow-revelers, he reached up for his coat, and felt something lightly brush the top of his head. He looked up. It was a sprig of mistletoe. At the same moment two firm hands closed over his eyes, and light, swift lips just grazed his cheek. Cyrus the Gaunt fell a-trembling. He turned slowly, and found himself confronting a total stranger. The stranger had gray hair and a tired face lighted by crinkly eyes. “Oh!” said Cyrus the Gaunt with an irrepressible bitterness of disappointment. “Frankness,” observed his salutant, “may or may not be a compliment to the object of it.” Cyrus remained mute. “Who did you _hope_ it was?” Silence seemed still the best policy. “If you are offended”--the eyes twinkled with added keenness--“I will apologize honorably.” “Let me do it for you,” said Cyrus the Gaunt politely, and kissed the unknown square upon the lips. She drew back. “Well!” she began; then she laughed. “The _entente cordiale_ having been established, _what_ are you doing here, Cyrus Staten?” He gasped and gaped. “Do I know you?” “Having neither memory nor manners, you do not. But I spent weeks at your country place when you were a boy, painting your father. Permit me to introduce myself.” And she gave a name so great that even Cyrus's comprehensive carelessness of art was not ignorant of it. “Great snakes!” he ejaculated. “I--I'm sorry I kissed you.” “Oh, I'm human. I rather liked it,” she chuckled, “even though I am old and stately. But how have you contrived to preserve your incognito?” “Easy enough. This is another world. Look out!” he added as the curtain behind them moved. “Somebody's coming.” The hanging swung aside and the Bonnie Lassie emerged. “Oh!” she said in surprise. “Do you know each other?”