"What costume?" he asked.
"Oh, didn't you know? It's for the Caricaturists' Ball in aid of the Artists' Fund. It's the Ball of the Gods—the great event of the season and the last. Evidently you don't live in New York."
"I haven't, recently."
"I see. Will you have a cigarette?" She pointed at a box on a tea tray; he thanked her and lighted one. As he continued to remain standing, she asked him again to be seated, and he complied.
She continued to pinch off little lumps of waxy, pliable composition and stick them on the horse. Still fussing with the sketch, he saw a smile curve her cheek in profile; and presently she said without turning:
"Why did you speak of Stephanie Quest as Mrs. Grismer? We don't, you know."
"Why not? Isn't she?"
The girl looked at him over her shoulder; she was startlingly pretty, fresh and smooth-skinned as a child.
"Who are you?" she asked, with that same little hint of friendly curiosity in her brown eyes;—"I'm Helen Davis, Stephanie's chum. You seem to know a good deal about her."
"I'm James Cleland," he said quietly, "—her brother."