When the first Crash of Music came through the hothouse Palms, Walter would be out on the Waxen Floor with his hair in a Braid. Through the long watches of the night he played Blonde against Brunette and then went home with his Time-Card bearing the official O.K. He swam among the floating Hooks and side-stepped the Maternal Traps, until the compilers of Marital Statistics had his name in the list marked "Nothing Doing." The Dope on him seemed to be that he was Immune and Jinx-Proof. After he led one of them back to a Divan and fed her an Ice, it was a case of "Good Night, Miss Mitchell." Truly, a Bachelor flown with Insolence and Pride is the favorite Mark for the Bow-and-Arrow Kid. For every weather-beaten Beau and Ballroom Veteran there is waiting somewhere in Ambuscade a keen little Diana with the right kind of Ammunition. One night he went to a Small Dance in his regular Henry Miller suit and wearing a tired look around the Eyes. He counted these minor Functions a dreadful Bore. Over in a corner sat a half-portion Damosel who had come to town on a Visit. Her name was Violet, and she looked the Part. She didn't know who was running for President or what Miss Pankhurst said about Suffrage, but she had large belladonna Orbs, with Danger lurking in their limpid depths. She was just at the Age when any girl who is not actually Deformed looks fair to middling, while the real Dinger, with the Tresses and the Complexion and the gleaming white Shoulders and the Parisian figure, is right there with a full equipment for breaking up Families. Old Dare-Devil Dick, the Hero of 1000 Flirtations, was sitting out one of the Dances recently condemned by Press and Pulpit. He became aware of the presence of something Feminine at his immediate right. He took a cautious Look and beheld a timid Debutante, sparkling with the Dew and waiting to be plucked. She gave him a frightened Smile and lamped him very slowly. Suddenly he felt himself wafted away on a cloud of Purple Perfumery. She had put the Sign on him without lifting a Finger. As she circled away, clutched by a rude Collegian, he lay back helpless, tied in a True Lovers' Knot. Later in the evening he met her. He sat alongside of her in an agony of confused Bliss, with a Temperature of 104 and the Vocal Chords entirely paralyzed. And yet, as a rule, he was just as reliable as a Phonograph. All the way home that night he was Bleeding freely. At 8 the next Morning he began sending Flowers. It was a terrible Case. The old ones seem to suffer more. He followed her like a trained Spaniel. When she seemed cold and distant, he would hurry to his Room and pull a private Brain-Storm. For many Hours thereafter the Map of the World would have a Black Border around it. Next day she would relent, and accept his Jack Roses, and he would run around and around in a Circle, gurgling and clapping his Hands.