mist, her slender young arms, her long, slim, romantic throat, the
finish and polish of her, every detail done lovingly as if by a master's
silver-pointed pencil, her hair so artlessly simple and shining, smooth
and rippled under the lights, the strangeness of her face! Girlie told
herself again that it was an irregular face, that the chin was not right,
that the eyes were not well-opened and lacked color, that the nose was
odd, defying classification; she knew, in spite of the rigid ignorance of
her ideals, that these things mysteriously spelled enchantment. Sheila
was as much more beautiful than anything Millings had ever seen as her
white gown was more exquisite than anything Millings had ever worn. It
was a work of art, and Sheila was, also, in some strange sense, a work of
art, something shaped and fashioned through generations, something tinted
and polished and retouched by race, something mellowed and restrained,
something bred. Girlie did not know why the white tulle frock, absolutely
plain, shamed her elaborate red satin with its exaggerated lines. But she
did know. She did not know why Sheila's subtle beauty was greater than
her obvious own. But she did know. And so great and bewildering a fear
did this knowledge give her that, for an instant, it confused her wits.

"She's going back East soon," she said sharply.

"Is she?" Jim's question was indifferent, but from that instant his
attention wandered.

When he took the small, crushable silken partner into his arms for "the
next after," a one-step, he was troubled by a sense of hurry, by that
desire to make the most of his opportunity that torments the reader of a
"best-seller" from the circulating library.

"Say, Miss Arundel," he began, looking down at the smooth, jewel-bright
head, "you haven't given Millings a square deal."

Sheila looked at him quizzically.

"You see," went on Jim, "it's winter now."

"Yes, Mr. Greely. It _is_ winter."

"And that's not our best season. When summer comes, it's awfully pretty
and it's good fun. We have all sorts of larks--us fellows and the girls.
You'd like a motor ride, wouldn't you?"

"Not especially, thank you," said Sheila, who really at times deserved
the Western condemnation of "ornery." "I don't like motors. In fact, I
hate motors."

Jim swallowed a nervous lump. This girl was not "home folks." She made
him feel awkward and uncouth. He tried to remember that he was Mr. James
Greely, of the Millings National