"

"Good!" exclaimed Lane, instantly.

"Bah!"

"Good--still," returned Lane. "But alas! She is brazen, unconscious of
it. But she's no fool, that kid. Lorna is an absolute silly
bull-headed fool. I wish Bessy Bell was my sister--or I mean that
Lorna was like her."

"Here comes Swann without Margie. Looks sore as a pup. The----"

"Shut up, Blair. I want to listen to this jazz."

Lane shut his eyes during the next number and listened without the
disconcerting spectacle in his sight. He put all the intensity of
which he was capable into his attention. His knowledge of music was
not extensive, but on the other hand it was enough to enable him to
analyze this jazz. Neither music nor ragtime, it seemed utterly
barbarian in character. It appealed only to primitive, physical,
sensual instincts. It could not be danced to sanely and gracefully.
When he opened his eyes again, to see once more the disorder of
dancers in spirit and action, he seemed to have his analysis
absolutely verified.

These dances were short, the encores very brief, and the intermissions
long. Perhaps the dancers needed to get their breath and rearrange
their apparel.

After this number, Lane left Blair talking to friends, and made his
way across the hall to where he espied Lorna. She did not see him. She
looked ashamed, hurt, almost sullen. Her young friend, Harry, was
bending over talking earnestly. Lane caught the words: "Lorna dear,
that Swann's only stringing you--rushing you on the sly. He won't
dance with you _here_--not while he's with that swell crowd."

"It's a lie," burst out Lorna. She was almost in tears.

Lane took her arm, making her start.

"Well, kids, you're having some time, aren't you," he said,
cheerfully.

"Sure--are," gulped Harry.

Lorna repressed her grief, but not her sullen resentment.

Lane pretended not to notice anything unusual, and after a few casual
remarks and queries he left them. Strolling from place to place,
mingling with the gay groups, in the more secluded alcoves and
recesses where couples appeared, oblivious to eyes, in the check room
where a sign read: "check your corsets," out in the wide landing where
the stairway came up, Lane passed, missing little that might have been
seen or heard. He did not mind that two of the chaperones stared at
him in supercilious curiosity, as if speculating on a possible _faux
pas_ of his at this dance. Both boys and girls he had met since his
return to Middleville,