Hugh went, of course. It was the first time he had ever been invited to Michael Schwankovsky’s house. And to-night it was not in any sense, he knew, Schwankovsky’s invitation, but entirely Joan’s. When he got to the mansion—for Schwankovsky’s house on Riverside Drive was no less—Hugh was taken up in the house elevator, run by a footman in Schwankovsky’s livery, to the top floor, where the host and his dinner guests were dancing in the long gallery. This was—the World knew—where Schwankovsky’s collection of oils was hung, and Hugh wondered, as the elevator ascended, whether the connoisseur had perhaps already snaked out some of the best of the Clare pictures for himself, and whether they were already up here in the famous gallery. He did not know the ethics of the business, or whether, indeed, Frye had the right to sell ahead of the exhibition. But even if he might not purchase them, it was conceivable that the man who was to finance and advertise the exhibition could borrow from it ahead, at will, any pictures he wished. Hugh thought of Ariel. “She’ll want to know every last detail, which pictures are here, how they look by electric light, everything. I must take particular pains to notice and remember.” The elevator let him out directly into the gallery. A dozen couples were dancing. An electrola was blaring. Joan saw him, left her partner, and crossed to him at once. “Nice of you to come. Don’t bother whether you know people or not. Just cut in and dance with them. Have a drink?” “No, thanks. But can’t we talk—you and I? Must it be dancing?” “I’m afraid so, for a while, anyway. We’ve only just begun.” “Are you going out to Holly to-night? Is your car here?” “No. I’m not going home till to-morrow morning. I’m staying with Brenda Loring. You remember her? Be nice to her to-night. She quite betrayed her girlish heart concerning you in Philadelphia. She was at the house party.” Hugh had met Miss Loring several times at Holly, and she was one of the very few girls among Joan’s acquaintances who cherished the illusion that he was unattached. She danced past at the moment with Michael Schwankovsky and smiled brilliantly at Hugh around—she could not possibly manage it over—the big man’s shoulder. Hugh noticed Joan’s recently discarded partner, who had seized the opportunity of Joan’s welcoming Hugh to get himself a drink at the buffet set up temporarily near the electrola, turning toward them. “Not yet, you idiot!” he cried inwardly, and took Joan quickly into his arms. They danced. “I was going to write you, Joan. But I waited. You can’t know what a brick I think you’ve been. How I appreciate—” Joan was exchanging lip and eye signals with her host, who, still with Brenda Loring, was passing them again, and she barely noticed Hugh’s words.