ndeed, MacRae stood watching them until he
recalled with a start that he had this dance with Etta Robbin-Steele,
who would, in her own much-used phrase, be "simply furious" at anything
that might be construed as neglect; only Etta's fury would consist of
showing her white, even teeth in a pert smile with a challenging twinkle
in her very black eyes.

He went to Betty as soon as he found opportunity. He did not quite know
why. He did not stop to ask himself why. It was a purely instinctive
propulsion. He followed his impulse as the needle swings to the pole; as
an object released from the hand at a great height obeys the force of
gravity; as water flows downhill.

He took her programme.

"I don't see any vacancies," he said. "Shall I create one?"

He drew his pencil through Stubby Abbott's name. Stubby's signature was
rather liberally inscribed there, he thought. Betty looked at him a
trifle uncertainly.

"Aren't you a trifle--sweeping?" she inquired.

"Perhaps. Stubby won't mind. Do you?" he asked.

"I seem to be defenseless." Betty shrugged her shoulders. "What shall we
quarrel about this time?"

"Anything you like," he made reckless answer.

"Very well, then," she said as they got up to dance. "Suppose we begin
by finding out what there is to quarrel over. Are you aware that
practically every time we meet we nearly come to blows? What is there
about me that irritates you so easily?"

"Your inaccessibility."

MacRae spoke without weighing his words. Yet that was the truth,
although he knew that such a frank truth was neither good form nor
policy. He was sorry before the words were out of his mouth. Betty could
not possibly understand what he meant. He was not sure he wanted her to
understand. MacRae felt himself riding to a fall. As had happened
briefly the night of the _Blackbird's_ wrecking, he experienced that
feeling of dumb protest against the shaping of events in which he moved
helpless. This bit of flesh and blood swaying in his arms in effortless
rhythm to sensuous music was something he had to reckon with powerfully,
whether he liked or not. MacRae was beginning dimly to see that. When he
was with her--

"But I'm not inaccessible."

She dropped her voice to a cooing whisper. Her eyes glowed as they met
his with steadfast concern. There was a smile and a question in them.

"What ever gave you that idea?"

"It isn't an idea; it's a fact."

The resentment against circumstances that troubled M