His partner threw back her head and laughed delightedly. “I warn you,” she flashed, “I’m very rich.” “Oh, but why ‘warn’?” said Fairfax, swinging her off her feet and then subsiding abruptly into a step of which the progressive nature was almost imperceptible. “Besides, I knew it before. Besides, if you had been poor, I shouldn’t have spoken.” “Are you seriously asking me to be your wife?” “I am. So far as you’re concerned, the advantages of such a course may not be obvious. To be perfectly frank, I can hardly see them myself. Still, you might do worse. At least, I’m clean, honest and sober.” “I’m not so sure about that,” said Athalia Choate. The man raised his eyebrows. Then he laid hold of the lady and started to dance. It was a superb performance. The floor was crowded, but, for all the notice of others that Fairfax seemed to take, it might have been empty. The two passed as one through the press, whirling, side-stepping, poising, translating every whim of the capricious measure into a masterpiece of motion. Athalia found herself treading as she had never trod before, yet making no mistake. The firm pressure upon her back became a powerful government, urging her to right or left, turning her, keeping her clear of collision, lifting her into the very spirit of the dance. The pace of the music grew hotter; the fury of the band, madcap. All about them people were labouring hilariously in a feverish endeavour to keep abreast of the rhythm. Fairfax’s feet moved like quicksilver . . . the two swam the length of the ballroom with a clean rush . . . he was doing another step, and she was late . . . she was off her feet, and he was thrusting again into the very heart of the crowd . . . her head—— Then the music stopped, and she was released. “Am I sober?” said Punch Fairfax. Miss Choate took a deep breath. “Indubitably,” she said. They made their way downstairs to a dim library, and Fairfax drew two chairs to the slow wood fire. Then he gave her a cigarette, lighted it, and took one himself. “Will you do me a favour?” he said. “Try me,” said Miss Choate. “Be perfectly honest with me for a quarter of an hour.” The lady knitted her brows. “What do you mean?” “That will appear,” said Fairfax. “The best way to learn a game is to start playing it. Now then. Are you averse to wedlock?” Miss Choate started. “I—I never agreed to play,” she said uneasily. Punch pulled his moustache. “It’s a very good game,” he said. “I have to answer, too—any question you ask.” Athalia subjected the toe of a ridiculously tiny slipper to a prolonged scrutiny. At length— “The answer,” she said, “is in the negative.” “Good,” said Fairfax, marking the excellence of her instep. “I’m seven years older than you. As a matter of fact, I think that’s just about right. Do you agree?” “I don’t disagree,” said Miss Choate slowly. “Anything between five and ten years. . . . When do I start?”