say, then? How
meet those doubting, knowing eyes, goggling with the fixed philosophy
that a man has but one use for woman? God! and it would be true! For
a moment he was on the point of getting his coat and hat, and sneaking
away. That would mean not seeing her till Monday; and he stood his
ground. But after to-night there must be no more such risks--their
meetings must be wisely planned, must sink underground. And then he saw
her at the foot of the stairs in a dress of a shell-pink colour, with
one of his flowers in her light-brown hair and the others tied to the
handle of a tiny fan. How self-possessed she looked, as if this were
indeed her native element--her neck and arms bare, her cheeks a deep
soft pink, her eyes quickly turning here and there. She began mounting
the stairs, and saw him. Was ever anything so lovely as she looked just
then? Behind her he marked Oliver, and a tall girl with red hair, and
another young man. He moved deliberately to the top of the stairs on
the wall side, so that from behind they should not see her face when she
greeted him. She put the little fan with the flowers to her lips; and,
holding out her hand, said, quick and low:

"The fourth, it's a polka; we'll sit out, won't we?"

Then swaying a little, so that her hair and the flower in it almost
touched his face, she passed, and there in her stead stood Oliver.

Lennan had expected one of his old insolent looks, but the young man's
face was eager and quite friendly.

"It was awfully good of you to come, Mr. Lennan. Is Mrs. Lennan--"

And Lennan murmured:

"She wasn't able; she's not quite--" and could have sunk into the
shining floor. Youth with its touching confidence, its eager trust! This
was the way he was fulfilling his duty towards Youth!

When they had passed into the ballroom he went back to his position
against the wall. They were dancing Number Three; his time of waiting,
then, was drawing to a close. From where he stood he could not see the
dancers--no use to watch her go round in someone else's arms.

Not a true waltz--some French or Spanish pavement song played in waltz
time; bizarre, pathetic, whirling after its own happiness. That chase
for happiness! Well, life, with all its prizes and its possibilities,
had nothing that quite satisfied--save just the fleeting moments of
passion! Nothing else quite poignant enough to be called pure joy! Or so
it seemed to him.

The waltz was over. He could see her now, on a r