s', and they
were kind about his football. A friend of Betty's from a neighbouring
house made the sixth. George was not uncomfortable. His glass had shown
him that in a dinner suit he was rather better looking than he had
thought. Observation had diminished his dread of social lapses. There
flowed, however, rather too much talk of strange worlds, which included
some approaching gaieties in New York.

"You," Betty said casually to him, "must run up to my great affair."

Her aunt, it appeared, would engineer that a short time before the
holidays. George was vague. The prospect of a ballroom was terrifying.
He had danced very little, and never with the type of women who would
throng Betty Alston's debut. Yet he wanted to go.

"Betty," her mother said, dryly, "will have all the lions she can trap."

George received an unpleasant impression of having been warned. It
didn't affect him strongly, because warnings were wasted there; he was
too much the slave of a photograph and a few intolerable memories.
Sylvia would almost certainly be at that dance.

Wandel appeared after dinner.

"I tried to get Dolly to come," he said, "but he was in a most
villainous temper about something, and couldn't be budged. Don't mind
saying he missed a treat. I hired a pert little mare at Marlin's. If I
can find anything in town nearly as good I'll break the two to tandem
this winter."

George's suppressed enthusiasm blazed.

"I'd like to help you. I'd give a good deal for a real fight with a
horse."

He was afraid he had plunged in too fast. He met the surprise of the
others by saying he had played here and there with other people's
horses; but the conversation had drifted to a congenial topic, and it
got to polo.

"Because a man was killed here once," Wandel said, "is no reason why the
game should be damned forever."

"If you young men," Mr. Alston offered, "want to get some ponies down in
the spring, or experiment with what I've got, you're welcome to play
here all you please, and it might be possible to arrange games with
scrub teams from Philadelphia and New York."

"Do you play, Mr. Morton?" Betty asked, interestedly.

"I've scrubbed around," he said, uncertainly.

She laughed.

"Then he's a master. That's what he told dear old Squibs about his
football."

George wanted to get away from horses. He could score only through
action. Talking was dangerous. He was relieved when he could leave with
Goodhue and Wandel.

The r