"I dote upon a tiger From the Congo or the Niger, Especially when lashing of his tail." And, while they don't go into details, I gathered that they'd been Clara Belle fans--had sent her orchids on openin' nights, and maybe had set up wine suppers for her and her friends. They knew about a couple of her matrimonial splurges. One was with her manager, of course; the next was a young broker whose fam'ly got him to break it off. After that they'd lost track of her. "It seems to me," says Old Hickory, "that I heard she had married someone in Buffalo, or Rochester, and had quit the stage. A patent medicine chap, I think he was, who'd made a lot of money out of something or other. I wonder what has become of her?" That was my cue, all right, but I passes it up. I wasn't talkin' just then; I was listenin'. "Ah-h-h!" goes on Mr. Mason, foldin' his hands over his forward sponson and rollin' his eyes sentimental. "Dear Clara Belle! I say, Ellins, wouldn't you like to hear her sing that MacFadden song once more?" "I'd give fifty dollars," says Old Hickory. "I'd make it a hundred if she'd follow it with 'O Promise Me,'" says K. W. "What was her record--six hundred nights on Broadway, wasn't it?" Say, they went on reminiscin' so long, it's a wonder the monthly meetin' ever got started at all. I might have forgot them hot-air bids of theirs, too, if it hadn't been for something Vee announces that night across the dinner-table. Seems that Mrs. Robert Ellins had been rung into managin' one of these war benefit stunts, and she's decided to use their new east terrace for an outdoor stage and the big drawin'-room it opens off from as an auditorium. You know, Mrs. Robert used to give violin recitals and do concert work herself, so she ain't satisfied with amateur talent. Besides, she knows so many professional people. "And who do you think she is to have on the program?" demands Vee. "Farrar!" "Aw, come!" says I. "And perhaps Mischa Elman," adds Vee. "Isn't that thrilling?" I admits that it is. "But say," I goes on, "with them big names on the bill, what does she expect to tax people for the best seats?" Vee says how they'd figured they might ask ten dollars for a few choice chairs. "Huh!" says I. "That won't get you far. Why don't you soak 'em proper?" "But how?" asks Vee. "You put in a bald-headed row," says I, "and I'll find you a party who'll fill it at a hundred a throw." Vee stares at me like she thought I'd been touched with the heat, and wants to know who. "Clara Belle Kinney," says I. "Why, I never heard of any such person," says she. "Oh, yes, you have," says I. "Alias Mrs. Ben Tupper." Course, I had some job convincin' her I wasn't joshin'; and even after I'd sketched out the whole story, and showed her that Clara Belle's past wasn't anything to really shudder over, Vee is still doubtful. "But can she sing now?" she asks.