Every one watched the clock, awaiting the last arrival with an impatience that was too truly founded on the safety of their personal fortunes to be concealed. "The conference ended at six-thirty," said Maud Lille to Bloodgood and Cheever; "Majendie left for his house immediately after. I had it from the city editor on the telephone." "Was any statement given out?" said Cheever, who put one finger to his lip, as he did when a little nervous. "None." "If he goes under, it means the bottom out of the market," said Cheever, fixing his owlish stare on Bloodgood’s smug face. "Are you long?" asked Bloodgood, turning on him with curiosity. "A thousand shares," answered Cheever, but in a tone that carried no conviction. "He won’t come," said Maud Lille obstinately. "If he does," said Cheever slowly, "he’s pulled through and the market ought to go up." And a second time his finger jerked up to his lips, with the gesture of the stutterer. "He won’t come," repeated Maud Lille. Bloodgood gave her a short look, trying to fathom the reason of her belief, a question he did not care to put before Cheever. At this moment Majendie appeared at the entrance of the studio. The conversation, which had been mounting in nervous staccatos, fell with the hollowness that one sometimes feels in the air before the first crash of a storm. By an uncontrollable impulse, each turned, eager to read in the first indication some clue to his personal fate. The last arrival had opened the outer door unheard, and, profiting by the commotion, had removed his overcoat and hat in the anteroom. When the rest of the party perceived him, Majendie was standing erect and smiling under the Turkish lamp that, hanging from the balcony, cast a mellow light on his genial, aristocratic forehead. In every detail, from the ruddy, delicately veined cheeks and white mustache to the slight, finely shaped figure at ease in the evening coat that fitted him as a woman’s ball gown, he radiated the patrician, but the patrician of urbanity, tact, and generous impulses. "My dear hostess," he said at once, bending over Mrs. Kildair’s hand with a little extra formality, "a thousand excuses for keeping you and your guests waiting. But just at present there are quite a number of persons who seem to be determined to keep me from my engagements. Am I forgiven?" "Yes," she answered, with a sudden feeling of admiration for the air of absolute good humor with which he pronounced these words, mystifying though they were to her sense of divination. "I think I know every one," he said, glancing around without a trace of emotion at Bloodgood and Cheever, whose presence could not have failed to be distasteful. "You are very good to be so lenient, and I will accept whatever penance you impose. Are we going to have one of those delightful chafing-dish suppers that only you know how to provide?"