Claire moved away. Flint was coming back. He had the effrontery to bow to her, but she stared at him coldly and resumed her seat at the piano. Presently she was conscious that Flint had called the waiter. And a little later she saw Flint and Lily Condor go out the side door.
Flint came back to the Café Ithaca the following night, alone. It was after the dinner hour and there was a little lull between gaieties. The entertainers sat huddled about the piano, but Claire was sitting in a far corner, at one of the obscure tables. Since the St. George's Day celebration the other performers had treated her with cool contempt, making pointed remarks about "up-stage" airs and the people who indulged in them. Claire felt that it was only a matter of time, now, that she would be forced to leave. Lycurgus had taken to drinking more and more heavily and he had begun to intimate that perhaps it would be a fairer proposition if Claire got in between numbers and hustled drinks with the rest of them. He was still appreciative of the costume she had worn at his feast, but she was finding it difficult to explain why she did not appear in it every night.
Lycurgus saw Flint come in, and, scenting a generous patron, scurried up to him obsequiously.
"Thank you—thank you! Where will you sit?"
Flint swept the room with his glance. "Over there," he said, loudly, pointing to where Claire was sitting.
She was on her feet in an instant, but Flint bore down upon her swiftly. "Here! Don't be in such a hurry! I've got something to say to you."
She shrugged wearily and resumed her seat. Lycurgus discreetly retreated.
Flint threw aside his overcoat and took a chair opposite her.
"What'll you have?" he demanded, beckoning the waiter.