Cayley held her coat for her, and as she turned to him with thanks, a sudden mad impulse stirred her; she audaciously put up her lips to be kissed. He did not fail her. The ladies at the table looked on, catching breath, stopping their talk. A waiter, passing, stood transfixed. Every one watched. Then a cheer broke out and a clapping of hands all over the restaurant. Fancy Gray bowed to her audience with dignity, as if she were on the stage. Then, with a comprehensive nod to her entertainers, she passed demurely down the aisle between the tables. Every eye followed her. At the counter she turned her head to see Blanchard Cayley still standing by his place. She came hurriedly back as if drawn by some magic spell, blushing hotly, with a strange look in her eyes. She looked up at him as a little girl might look up at her father. The room was hushed. It was too much for that audience to comprehend. The act had almost lost its effrontery; the audacity had become, somehow, pathos. Fancy walked like a somnambulist, her eyes wide open, staring at Blanchard. He had turned paler, but stood still, with his gaze fastened upon her, reveling, characteristically, in a new sensation. The ladies in his party did not speak. Nobody spoke. The room was like a well-governed school at study hour, every eye fixed upon Fancy Gray. Whatever secret emotion it was that drew her back, it was for its moment compelling, casting out every trace of self-consciousness. She seemed to show her naked soul. She reached him, and again he put his arms about her and kissed her full on the lips. Again the tumult broke forth. In that din and confusion she slipped back to the door. There was another hush. Then the crowd gasped audibly and tongues were loosened in a babel of exclamations. With a cry, some one pointed to the window. There stood Fancy Gray, pressing through the glass, histrionically, one last kiss to Cayley—and disappeared into the night. Half a dozen men jumped up to follow her, and turned back to account for a new silence that had abruptly fallen on the room. Blanchard Cayley was still standing. He had snatched a wine-glass from the table, and now, with a silencing gesture, he held it above his head. He was perfectly calm, he had lost nothing of his usual elegance of manner. "I don’t know who she is, but here’s to her!" he called out to the roomful of listeners. "Bottoms-up, everybody!" He drank off his toast. Glasses were raised all over the room. Men sprang upon their chairs, put one foot on the table and drank Fancy Gray’s health. Then the crowd yelled again. In the confusion Mrs. Maxwell leaned to Clytie. "I don’t know, my dear, whether I’ll dare to chaperon you _here_ again!" She herself was as excited as any one there. Frankie Dean’s thin lips curled in a sneer. "Oh, they call this Bohemia, don’t they! Did you ever see anything so cheap and vulgar in your life? I feel positively dirty!"