in progress at the armory, and it was proposed that
the evening be concluded there. The suggestion met with instant approval.
In spite of the indignant protests of the elders, the gay company, headed
by Eleanor, left the half-eaten ices melting on their plates, and, rising
in a body, took noisy and immediate flight.

At twelve o'clock the elaborately decorated rooms were empty, the
musicians were packing their instruments, the caterers were removing
trays of untasted food, and Quin, standing dazed in the deserted hall,
one hand clasping his shirt-front and the other on his face, was trying
in vain to realize that the party which he had inspired had proved his
Waterloo!

CHAPTER 15

The next day Quin sold his dinner-coat for a fourth of what he paid for
it, and forswore society forever. There was absolutely nothing in it, he
assured the Martels, a conviction that assorted strangely with the fact
that he devoured the columns in the daily papers devoted to the doings of
the social elect, and waded through endless lists under the caption
"Among Those Present." Every hour in the day he invented a new scheme for
seeing Eleanor, which pride alone prevented him from carrying out. He
wrote her a dozen notes, all of which he tore up; he went out of his way
to pass through the streets where he might catch a glimpse of her, and
seized the slightest excuse for errands to the Bartlett house. But the
days of her holiday slipped away, and he neither saw nor heard from her.

Each morning at breakfast Mr. Martel would say hopefully, "Well, Eleanor
will surely grace our humble abode to-day," or, "Something tells me my
lady-bird will come to-day!" And each evening Quin would rush home from
work buoyed up by the hope that he might find her.

"I bet she'd come to-day if she knew Captain Phipps was going to be
here," said Myrna one morning, wagging her head wisely.

"What's that got to do with it?" Rose asked sharply.

"They're sweethearts," said Myrna, with the frightful astuteness of
twelve. "And old Madam Bartlett won't let him come to the house, and Nell
has to see him on the sly."

"Tut, tut, child! Where did you get that notion?" asked Mr. Martel,
peeling an orange with his little fingers gracefully extended. "Harold
Phipps is years older than Nellie. He is interested solely in her
professional career. He has a lovely, detached soul, as impersonal--What
is the matter, Rosalind?"

"Nothing-