He came straight to the two, stood before Susan, spread out anticipative hands and began to oscillate to the one-step which had just commenced. An impudence of raised eyebrows and the shadow of a superior grin argued a confident familiarity which could afford to dispense with a formal invitation to dance. With a heart of lead, Miss Crail acceded brightly to the unspoken request. As she launched herself, she flung out the words of the melody in the approved darkie fashion. _And you never know whether she will,_ _And you never know whether you may,_ _But hold her tight,_ _With all your might,_ _By the small of her back,_ _On a moonlight night,_ _And you won’t be left,_ _’Cause you must be right—_ _THOWAT-T-T’S the way!_ They flashed the short length of the salon, whirled through the open doors and disappeared. . . . There is an old saying that you cannot have it both ways. If you decide to discourage heaven, then you must be prepared to encourage hell. Whether or no Susan had offended Kilmuir, she had exalted Labotte—a supererogatory and rather dangerous elevation. He began to improve the occasion almost at once. “I do not know why I ’af not resgue you more soon. I think I am a gread fool. There is the nices’ leedle ’orse in oll the place sidding with a gread dull fellow an’ I ’af lose my dime in tryin’ to school so many mules. _Tant pis!_ I tell you, we are goin’ to ’af a good dime now. We are goin’ to go well this evenin’—my naize leedle ’orse an’ I.” His buoyant tenderness was hideous, but Kilmuir was standing in the doorway, and they were dancing towards him. Susan threw back her head and laughed wildly. “Your horse?” Labotte tightened his hold. “From the firs’ dime I ’af see you, you ’af been my naize leedle ’orse. Bud olways before, you ’af been shy from me. ‘Ah,’ I ’af say, ‘bud thad is a good fault.’ You know, a man like much bedder when a girl is not oll over ’im at once. An’ so I say, ‘Gently, my frien’, tread gently your naize leedle ’orse: an’ one day she shall whinney when she shall ’ear your face——” “And eat out of your hand?” It is doubtful whether the sage heard what she said. Intoxicated with the triumph of his compelling personality, dazzled by the richness of the pasture his brilliancy had won, considerably affected by the elegance with which his imagery had betrayed at once the sportsman, master and swain, Labotte was out of earshot. He whirled her past Nicholas in an eloquent dithyramb of motion to which she deliberately subscribed. “My naize leedle ’orse,” he crooned, “oll while I ’af make spord with the mules I ’af see olways my leedle ’orse in the dail of my eye. An’ ad night I ’af dream about ’er, an’ now. . . ’Af I not say that we shall go well this evening? Eh? An’ do we not? Eh? Was I nod righd then, sweet-bit?”