A little later, as Harvey sat alone listening to the music, Mr. Porter appeared, picking his way toward the centre aisle. Harvey watched him idly. He finally reached the stairway, and came straight to Harvey's table. “Good evening, Mr. West,” he said, holding out his hand. “Won't you join us? We shall be here for an hour, anyway.” Harvey rose, and looked across the diagonal line of tables. Miss Porter was leaning forward with a smile. Harvey's mind had been made up, but he changed it and followed Mr. Porter. Katherine received him brightly and immediately put him at ease. For the time he forgot that Mr. Porter and he were nominal enemies. Mr. Porter talked entertainingly of the people about them, a subject which Harvey could continue with intelligence; and he was gratified to note the interest in the daughter's eyes as he commented on the oddities of human character. They were looking at a party of Germans, who sat listening to the music with the stolid interest of the race, when Mr. Porter rose and beckoned. Katherine nodded to some one behind Harvey. A moment later he was shaking hands with Mr. McNally. “We've been watching for you for some time,” said Mr. Porter, as McNally took the vacant chair. “Have you?” McNally smiled easily. “I wish you had said that, Miss Porter.” “Oh, Mr. McNally, you know I was hoping for you.” Harvey's eyes betrayed him, for she added in a bantering tone,-- “We must say such things to Mr. McNally, Mr. West; if we don't, he gets simply unbearable.” McNally looked at her with an amused expression. Evidently they understood each other. As the banter continued, Harvey began to feel uncomfortable. He tried to listen to the orchestra, which was playing a lively march. “Good, isn't it?” said Miss Porter to Harvey. “Splendid,” he replied. “Do you think so?” observed Mr. McNally. “Seems to me Bunge's a little off to-night. Too much drum. Queer motions, hasn't he?” Herr Bunge's motions were queer. He was very tall and spare, with an angular, smooth-shaven face, and with a luxuriant growth of hair that waved and flopped in the gentle breeze. His long arms were principally elbow, and they swayed and crooked and jerked as though he were pulling the music down out of the air. At times when he turned to the belated second violins, his gaunt profile would appear in silhouette against a glare of electric light. “Do you know,” said McNally, fingering his programme, “Bunge ought to stick to this kind of stuff. Last week I heard him play some of the Queen Mab music, and it was wilful slaughter. Poor old Berlioz would have sobbed aloud if he had heard it.” Harvey felt awkward. He could not follow McNally's comments, and it humiliated him. Miss Porter was quick to observe his silence, and endeavored to draw him into the conversation, while Mr. McNally seemed determined to hold the reins. There was some good-natured fencing, then Mr. Porter rose.