Three times they marched round the room until Blake was heartily tired of “La Cucha-racha.” So was someone else. A determined young man stepped from the march and went up to whisper into the ear of the orchestra leader. The signal was given, the tune changed at last, and the line melted into a dance. Blake remembered his duty and climbed down to claim Mary until the first intermission after the dance. Afterwards he went back to the line of wall-flowers to watch the others. He was standing behind a line of old women who had “just come to look on,” and listened to what they were saying while he kept his eyes fixed on the dancers. They were amusing, but horrible. They were so spiteful and helpless. The worst of it was that they all agreed; if one of them said something they all nodded and added to the statement. They agreed on the prettiest costume; they nodded in concert if one of them ventured a view on the morals of some unfortunate girl who danced by. During the third dance, well on towards midnight, he plucked up courage enough to leave the faded ladies and claim Gin for a dance. She was in high spirits. He had watched her from across the floor; now that she was in his arms breathing in his face he understood better why she was so excited. Corn liquor, probably. They went twice around the room without speaking. “Are you having a good time?” she asked him then. “You look glum.” “Not very. Does anyone?” “Oh I do,” she said. “I love crowds, don’t you? Everybody in the world is here. Even from Taos. It’s simply marvelous. Have you seen Phil? Isn’t he rare?” He glanced at her obliquely and decided that she was pretending. No one could be enjoying it, really. Everyone was trying too hard, as they always did in crowds. He was depressed. Merry-making always seemed to leave him out. Was it his own fault? Of course the wags were busy, being clownish. Clowns were always too busy to think about enjoyment itself. Why couldn’t he be like that? If he could even stop thinking about himself it would be more comfortable, but he couldn’t. No one ever could. Mary couldn’t, or Teddy. The dance was ended; she took his arm and started to lead him from the room. “Where are we going?” he asked suspiciously. “Out to the car. I want a drink, don’t you? Harvey’s waiting.” “No. If you don’t mind, I won’t come along.” He was afraid of Harvey; afraid that he would be in the way. Harvey had danced with Gin held very close, in a very proprietary manner. She tugged at him. “Come along. You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to, but please come on. Please. I hate sitting out there alone with him.” That settled it and he stopped short. “No,” he said flatly. “No I won’t.” She cried out impatiently and began to argue, as he knew she would. But whatever she was saying, he did not hear; he was suddenly listening to another voice behind him, that struck him with terror. “There’s Blake Lennard,” he heard, and knew it was Maria. “Oh Blake! turn around.”