ou. I always was. Now--let me alone!"

"Have you ever known me, since I've been married--" He caught
Grandcourt's eye, stammered, and stopped short. Then: "You certainly
are absurd. Delancy! I wouldn't deliberately interfere with you or
disturb a young girl's peace of mind. The trouble with you is----"

"The trouble with _you_ is that women take to you very quickly, and you
are always trying to see how far you can arouse their interest. What's
the use of risking heartaches to satisfy curiosity?"

"Oh, I don't have heartaches!" said Dysart, intensely amused.

"I wasn't thinking of you. I suppose that's the reason you find it
amusing.... Not that I think there's any real harm in you----"

"Thanks," laughed Dysart; "it only needed that remark to damn me
utterly. Now go and dance with little Miss Seagrave, and don't worry
about my trying to interfere."

Grandcourt looked sullenly at him. "I'm sorry I spoke, now," he said. "I
never know enough to hold my tongue to you."

He turned bulkily on his heel and left the dining-hall. There were
others, in throngs, leaving--young, eager-faced fellows, with a
scattering of the usual "dancing" men on whom everybody could always
count, and a few middle-aged gentlemen and women of the younger married
set to give stability to what was, otherwise, a debutante's affair.

Dysart, strolling about, booked a dance or two, performed creditably,
made his peace, for the sake of peace, with Sylvia Quest, whose ignorant
heart had been partly awakened under his idle investigations. But this
was Sylvia's second season, and she would no doubt learn several things
of which she heretofore had been unaware. Just at present, however, her
heart was very full, and life's outlook was indeed tragic to a young
girl who believed herself wildly in love with a married man, and who
employed all her unhappy wits in the task of concealing it.

A load of guilt lay upon her soul; the awful fact that she adored him
frightened her terribly; that she could not keep away from him terrified
her still more. But most of all she dreaded that he might guess her
secret.

"I don't know why you thought I minded your not--not talking to me
during dinner," she faltered. "I was having a perfectly heavenly time
with Peter Tappan."

"Do you mean that?" murmured Dysart. He could not help playing his part,
even when it no longer interested him. To murmur was as natural to him
as to breathe.

She looked up piteously. "I woul