He had heard Colonel Haviland say that, but his manner gave it no
quotation-marks.

Presumably he talked to Miss Moeller about something usual--the snow
or the party or Owen Johnson's novels. Presumably Miss Moeller had
eyes to look into and banalities to look away from. Presumably there
was something in the room besides people and talk and rugs hung over
the bookcases. But Carl never knew. He was looking for Ruth. He did
not see her.

Within ten minutes he had manoeuvered himself free of Miss Moeller
and was searching for Ruth, his nerves quivering amazingly with the
fear that she might already have gone.

How would he ever find her? He could scarce ask the hostess, "Say,
where's Ruth?"

She was nowhere in the fog of people in the big room.... If he could
find even Olive....

Strolling, nodding to perfectly strange people who agreeably nodded
back under the mistaken impression that they were glad to see him, he
systematically checked up all the groups. Ruth was not among the
punch-table devotees, who were being humorous and amorous over
cigarettes; not among the Caustic Wits exclusively assembled in a
corner; not among the shy sisters aligned on the davenport and
wondering why they had come; not in the general maelstrom in the
center of the room.

He stopped calmly to greet the hostess again, remarking, "You look so
beautifully sophisticated to-night," and listened suavely to her
fluttering remarks. He was the picture of the cynical cityman who has
to be nowhere at no especial time. But he was not cynical. He had to
find Ruth!

He escaped and, between the main room and the dining-room, penetrated
a small den filled with witty young men, old stories, cigarette-smoke,
and siphons. Then he charged into the dining-room, where there were
candles and plate much like silver--and Ruth and Olive at the farther
end.

CHAPTER XXVIII

He wanted to run forward, take their hands, cry, "At last!" He seemed
to hear his voice wording it. But, not glancing at them again, he
established himself on a chair by the doorway between the two rooms.

It was safe to watch the two girls in this Babel, where words swarmed
and battled everywhere in the air. Ruth was in a brown velvet frock
whose golden tones harmonized with her brown hair. She was being
enthusiastically talked at by a man to whom she listened with a
courteously amused curiosity. Carl could fancy her nudging Olive, who
sat beside her on the Jacobean settee