"Why, yes, of course," he caught Mrs. Forsythe drawling in a tone of self-confessed stupidity. "Anybody ought to know him."
"Or his wife," broke in Edington. "One can't miss her.... Now, she's getting the habit. I declare everybody seems to be interested. I guess it's you, Miss Robson. You must be the attraction."
"The orchestra has come back," Stillman announced, deliberately. "What's next?"
"'Papillons,' a ballet in one act," Edington called out, reading from his program.
"Music by Robert Schumann," supplemented Mrs. Forsythe.
"Ah, now we shall see the wonderful Bolm!" Stillman said to Claire. "They say he's the finest pantomimist on the stage." She turned slightly toward him with a movement of appeal. "What is it?" he whispered.
"Just Flint," she answered, grasping his wrist in a swift, backward gesture. "He keeps on staring."
"What? Shall we change places?"
"No. That would be too.... It's no matter. What did you say the star's name was?... There, the curtain is going up!"
Stillman fell back, but as he did so he took a sweeping survey of the lower box. Flint was still staring, and his wife was doing a great deal of vehement talking and head-shaking to the other women sharing their hospitality.