irst room to your left," said the important person at
the door, and Quin followed the stream of black-coated figures who were
filing up the stairs and turning into the room he had occupied a short
week ago. It was just as he had left it, except for the picture that no
longer adorned the mantel.

"Beg pardon, sir," said the lofty attendant who took his overcoat, "your
stud's come loose."

"I bet the damn thing's going to do that all night," Quin said
confidentially. "Say, you haven't got a pin, have you?"

"Oh, no, sir, it couldn't be pinned," protested the man in a shocked
tone.

Quin adjusted it as best he could, took a final look at himself in the
mirror, and proceeded downstairs. Arrived in the lower hall, he glanced
about him in some perplexity. Not a member of the family was visible, and
he looked in vain for a familiar face. In his uncertainty as to his next
move, he went back to the pantry and got himself a glass of water.

As he was returning to the hall, some one plucked at his sleeve and
whispered:

"Hello there, Graham!"

Turning around, he encountered the gaping mouth of a shining saxophone,
behind which beamed the no less shining countenance of Barney McGinness.

Barney had been in the 105th Infantry Band, and he and Quin had returned
from France on the same transport. They exchanged hearty greetings under
their breath.

"Serving here to-night, are you?" asked Barney.

"Serving?" repeated Quin; then he laughed good-naturedly. "You got
another guess coming your way, Barney."

"So it's the parlor instid of the pantry, is it? I'd 'a' seen it for
meself if I had used me eyes instead of me mouth. You look grand enough
to be doing a turn on the vawdyville."

Quin tried not to expand his chest in pride, for fear the movement would
disturb those temperamental studs. He would fain have lingered
indefinitely in the warmth of Barney's admiring smile, but the signal for
the first dance was already given, and he moved nervously out into the
throng again.

Now that the moment had come for him to meet Eleanor--the moment he had
longed for by day and dreamed of by night,--he found himself overcome
with terrible diffidence. Suppose she did not want to see him again?
Suppose she should be angry at him for coming to her party? Suppose she
should be too taken up with all these strange friends of hers to have
time to dance with him?

After obstructing social traffic in the hall for several moments, he
encount