ner as he murmured:

"Do you know there is something almost divine in your face."

"What did you say?" asked Geraldine, looking up from her ice in its nest
of spun sugar.

"You so strenuously reject the truthful compliments I pay you, that
perhaps I'd better not repeat this one."

"Was it really more absurd flattery?"

"No, never mind...." He leaned back in his chair, absently turning the
curious, heavily chiselled ring on his little finger, but every few
moments his expressive eyes reverted to her. She was eating her ice with
all the frank enjoyment of a schoolgirl.

"Do you know, Miss Seagrave, that you and I are really equipped for
better things than talking nonsense."

"I know that I am," she observed.... "Isn't this spun sugar delicious!"

"Yes; and so are you."

But she pretended not to hear.

He laughed, then fell silent; his dreamy gaze shifted from vacancy to
her--and, casually, across the room, where it settled lightly as a
butterfly on his wife, and there it poised for a moment's inexpressive
examination. Scott Seagrave was talking to Rosalie; she did not notice
her husband.

After that, with easy nonchalance approaching impudence, he turned to
his own neglected dinner partner, Sylvia Quest, who received his tardy
attentions with childish irritation. She didn't know any better. And
there was now no time to patch up matters, for the signal to rise had
been given and Dysart took Sylvia to the door with genuine relief. She
bored him dreadfully since she had become sentimental over him. They
always did.

Lounging back through the rising haze of tobacco-smoke he encountered
Peter Tappan and stopped to exchange a word.

"Dancing?" he inquired, lighting his cigarette.

Tappan nodded. "You, too, of course." For Dysart was one of those types
known in society as a "dancing man." He also led cotillions, and a
morally blameless life as far as the more virile Commandments were
concerned.

He said: "That little Seagrave girl is rather fetching."

Tappan answered indifferently:

"She resembles the general run of this year's output. She's weedy. They
all ought to marry before they go about to dinners, anyway."

"Marry whom?"

"Anybody--Delancy, here, for instance. You know as well as I do that no
woman is possible unless she's married," yawned Tappan. "Isn't that so,
Delancy?" clapping Grandcourt on the shoulder.

Grandcourt said "yes," to be rid of him; but Dysart turned around with
his usual smil