One night toward the end of the week Claire Robson had a surprise. In the midst of all the cut-to-measure gaiety of the Café Ithaca who should walk in the side door but Sawyer Flint. Claire stared frankly. Instinctively Flint fell back with a quick screening movement, not only obvious, but futile. His companion proved to be Lily Condor. Claire, who was sitting idly at the piano, turned away her head and began to play. The spectacle of Flint and Mrs. Condor together was not unexpected; Nellie Whitehead had brought her the news of this latest alliance not two weeks before.
"They go poking about to all the cheap joints where they're sure nobody will get a line on them. Billy Holmes and I saw them at the Fior d'Italia last Saturday."
Nellie Whitehead had said other things, too, complimentary to neither her former employer nor his latest boon companion....
Claire did not look up again until she had finished the piece she was playing. Flint and Lily Condor had retreated to an obscure corner where they seemed to be sitting in rather furtive discomfort. Claire was human enough to enjoy her triumph. She knew that the two were taking mental stock of the defenses that they might be called upon to use.
Mrs. Condor looked older; her hair was losing its luster, and her complexion showed unmistakable first-aid signs. There were about her mouth, too, lines of spiritual rather than of physical fag, forerunners of a complete let-down. Claire could but feel a measure of pity for this woman. She knew enough to realize that in accepting the attentions of Sawyer Flint Lily Condor had reached the ghastly plains of unrestrained compromise. At least there had been always something bold and arresting about Mrs. Condor's indiscretions; she had not been given to shielding her improprieties behind the screen of cheap delights. She reminded Claire of some harried animal snatching joys at the expense of security. After Flint washed his hands of her, what then?
Flint was making compromises, too. Lily Condor was not the woman he would have picked for a dining companion if the field had been open to his choice. Flint liked to exhibit his quarry rather openly and with a swagger. But Lily was no conquest to brag of, and Claire could see that already his attitude was anything but deferential. She had a feeling that Mrs. Condor would have been willing to take the chance of dining with Sawyer Flint in the fashionable restaurants of San Francisco, and that these shifts to less smart entertainments were more a matter of Flint's lack of pride in his adventure rather than his companion's desire to be furtive. And as for the discretion of sneaking in and out of badly lighted side entrances—even this was questionable. After all, Flint and Lily Condor could have played an open game to much better purpose, and Claire was sensible that they both were aware of this fact—the lady to her inward chagrin.
Flint ordered a salad and then rose and went out into the barroom. Mrs. Condor, divesting herself of wraps, deliberately caught Claire's eye and beckoned her. Claire left the piano stool.
"Claire Robson!" began Mrs. Condor, boldly. "Fancy—you here!"
Claire looked at her with uncomfortable directness. "All my friends are surprised," she answered, simply.