down in surprise, realizing how excited he must be not to
have noticed that before, and remained for a moment silent, looking at
the splendidly muscular white arm, and the large well-manicured
hand. He was feeling in every nerve the reminiscence of the yielding
firmness of Sylvia's flesh, bare against his own. The color came up
flamingly into his face again. He moistened his lips with his tongue.
"Jesus _Christ_!" he exclaimed, contemptuously careless of his
listener, "I'm wild in love with that girl!" He pulled his sleeve down
with a quick, vigorous gesture, deftly shot the cuff out beyond the
black broadcloth, and, the picture of handsome, well-groomed youth in
easy circumstances, turned again to his father's wife. "What you in
here _for_, anyhow?" he asked still with his light absence of concern
about anything she did or did not do.

She hesitated, looking about the room. "I thought Miss Marshall would
be here. She promised to come down early to write the names on the
place-cards. I thought I heard her voice."

"You did," he told her. "She came down early all right--but she went
back again." He laughed, tossed his cigarette-end in the fireplace,
and vouchsafing no more explanation, strolled into the billiard-room,
and began to knock the balls about, whistling a recent dance tune with
great precision and vivacity. He was anticipating with quickened blood
the next meeting with Sylvia. As he thrust at the gleaming balls, his
mouth smiled and his eyes burned.

Mrs. Fiske went upstairs and knocked at Sylvia's door. There was a
rush of quick footsteps and the girl asked from the other side in a
muffled voice, "Who is it?" Mrs. Fiske gave her name, and added, in
answer to another question, that she was alone. The door opened enough
for her to enter, and closed quickly after her. She looked about the
disordered room, saw the open trunk, the filmy cascade of yellow
chiffon half on and half off the bed, the torn and crumpled spangled
scarf, and Sylvia herself, her hastily donned kimono clutched about
her with tense hands.

The mistress of the house made no comment on this scene, looking at
Sylvia with dull, faded eyes in which there was no life, not even the
flicker of an inquiry. But Sylvia began in a nervous voice to attempt
an explanation: "Oh, Mrs. Fiske--I--you'll have to excuse me--I must
go home at once--I--I was just packing. I thought--if I hurried I
could make the eight-o'clock trolley back to La Chance, and you