king to
a climax in which the man poised with his partner perched upon one
shoulder. Through the megaphone came instructions to applaud the couple,
and Broadway applauded--all but Merton Gill, who stared moodily into
his coffee cup or lifted bored eyes to the scene of revelry. He was not
bored, but his various emotions combined to produce this effect very
plausibly. He was dismayed at this sudden revelation of art in the dance
so near him. Imogene Pulver had once done an art dance back in Simsbury,
at the cantata of Esther in the vestry of the Methodist church, and
had been not a little criticised for her daring; but Imogene had been
abundantly clad, and her gestures much more restrained. He was trying
now to picture how Gashwiler would take a thing like this, or Mrs.
Gashwiler, for that matter! One glimpse of those practically unclad
bodies skipping and bounding there would probably throw them into a
panic. They couldn't have sat it through. And here he was, right up in
front of them, and not turning a hair.

This reflection permitted something of the contemptuous to show in the
random glances with which he swept the dancers? He could not look at
them steadily, not when they were close, as they often were. Also,
he loathed the cigarette he was smoking. The tolerant scorn for the
Gashwilers and his feeling for the cigarette brought him again into
favourable notice. He heard Henshaw, but did not look up.

"Get another flash here, Paul. He's rather a good little bit." Henshaw
now stood beside him. "Hold that," he said. "No, wait." He spoke to
Merton's companion. "You change seats a minute with Miss Montague, as if
you'd got tired of him--see what I mean? Miss Montague--Miss Montague."
The Spanish girl arose, seeming not wholly pleased at this bit of
directing. The Montague girl came to the table. She was a blithesome
sprite in a salmon-pink dancing frock. Her blonde curls fell low over
one eye which she now cocked inquiringly at the director.

"You're trying to liven him up," explained Henshaw. "That's
all--baby-vamp him. He'll do the rest. He's quite a good little bit."

The Montague girl flopped into the chair, leaned roguishly toward Merton
Gill, placed a small hand upon the sleeve of his coat and peered archly
at him through beaded lashes, one eye almost hidden by its thatch of
curls. Merton Gill sunk low in his chair, cynically tapped the ash from
his tenth cigarette into the coffee cup and raised bored eyes to he