The orchestra had paused, either through simple human pity, or, as seemed more likely, to rest. Even a good orchestra must have time for physical and mental refreshment, and the guests at the St. James would gladly have accorded eternity to this one, had the management been kindly disposed and permitted it.
A faint breath of the tropical night stirred the foliage in the palm-room, where there was light and laughter and the crystalline tinkle of glasses. The predatory lady from Memphis, clad resplendently in white lace, and paste jewels, moved restlessly about the room. Her blue eyes were cat-like in their quick intense scrutiny. They said, at the St. James, that nothing under the roof escaped her knowledge.
Designedly she passed the two who sat at a glass-covered table in a secluded corner, affecting not to notice them. When the rustle of her garments and the clatter of her high heels died away, the man spoke.
"She must have spilled the peroxide," he said with a grating laugh. Her hair was indeed more brilliant than usual.
The woman laughed too—a little hysterical laugh which sounded more like a sob. She took her watch from the silver bag that hung at her belt, opened it, and laid it before them.
"An hour more," she answered irrelevantly. "Like Cinderella, I must go at twelve."
"Are you afraid your auto will turn into a pumpkin drawn by white rats and your chauffeur into—let's see, who was Cinderella's footman?"
She shook her head. "I used to know, but it was long ago when I was a child."
"You're only a child now," he returned quickly.
"No, I'm a woman, and I must meet whatever comes to me as a brave woman should." She fixed her clear eyes on his and spoke steadily. "I mustn't be a coward, I mustn't refuse to do anything just because it is hard. I've got to be true to my best self, and you've got to help me."