wded with shrilly
chattering people in florid clothes. There was a hint of brassware and
paintings and silken Turkish rugs.

But no sight of Ruth or Olive.

A maid was bobbing to him and breathing, "That way, please, at the end
of the hall." He went meekly. He did not dare to search the clamorous
crowd for the girls, as yet.

He obediently added his hat and coat and stick to an
uncomfortable-looking pile of wraps writhing on a bed in a small room
that had a Copley print of Sargent's "Prophets," a calendar, and an
unimportant white rocker.

It was time to go out and face the party, but he had stage-fright.
While climbing the stairs he had believed that he was in touch with
the two girls, but now he was separated from them by a crowd, farther
from them than when he had followed them down the unfriendly street.
And not till now did he quite grasp the fact that the hostess might
not welcome him. His glowing game was becoming very dull-toned. He
lighted a cigarette and listened to the beating surf of the talk in
the other room.

Another man came in. Like all the rest, he gave up the brilliant idea
of trying to find an unpreempted place for his precious newly ironed
silk hat, and resignedly dumped it on the bed. He was a passable man,
with a gentlemanly mustache and good pumps. Carl knew that fact
because he was comparing his own clothes and deciding that he had none
the worst of it. But he was relieved when the waxed mustache moved a
couple of times, and its owner said, in a friendly way: "Beastly
jam!... May I trouble you for a match?"

Carl followed him out to the hostess, a small, busy woman who made a
business of being vivacious and letting the light catch the fringes of
her gold hair as she nodded. Carl nonchalantly shook hands with her,
bubbling: "So afraid couldn't get here. My play----But at last----"

He was in a panic. But the hostess, instead of calling for the police,
gushed, "_So_ glad you _could_ come!" combining a kittenish mechanical
smile for him with a glance over his shoulder at the temporary butler.
"I want you to meet Miss Moeller, Mr.--uh--Mr----"

"I knew you'd forget it!" Carl was brotherly and protecting in his
manner. "Ericson, Oscar Ericson."

"Oh, of course. How stupid of me! Miss Moeller, want you to meet Mr.
Oscar Ericson--you know----"

"S' happy meet you, Miss Mmmmmmm," said Carl, tremendously well-bred
in manner. "Can we possibly go over and be clever in a corner, do you
think?"