Presently she was in the room, and Bobbie wanted to push everybody aside and go to her and take her away—away from all this noise and music and crowd, and have her to himself; but, instead, he never moved an inch, only his face grew white, and he was ashamed of the furious beating of his heart. She was trying to come with her father, whose arm she held, to speak to his mother and the rest; but immediately she was surrounded and almost hopelessly entangled as she laughingly tried to make her way through the crowd. Bobbie leaned carelessly against the mantel and awaited her coming with apparent quiet. She was a revelation to him to-night. Surely it must be another Dorothy! The one he had left in the early fall was a girl—this one was a woman. Bobbie did not know where the charm lay; he saw it all in a flash—the long dress, the different arrangement of the hair, and the manner that comes with the wearing, filled him with entirely new sensations. Was she going to be changed too? On she came, with her father and numerous followers, and soon she stood near enough for Bobbie to see her in her quaint, short-waisted gown of sheerest, daintiest white, over its satin slip, cut low in the neck, and with great puffs for sleeves. Surely no head was ever poised like Dorothy’s, and no hair was ever so soft, or curled so bewitchingly around a forehead and neck as did that which escaped from the loose coil at the back of her head. She wore no jewels or ornaments of any kind, but in her hands she carried the huge bouquet of violets he had ordered from the city and sent to her during the day. How exactly they matched her eyes, he thought, as he watched her—those wondrously beautiful eyes, with their wondrously beautiful lashes! She had spoken to his mother, and now she turned to Bobbie: “I’ve had to fight my way up here,” she said laughingly, holding out her hand to him in the sweet, frank way of old, “but I suppose no penalty is too great to pay for the privilege of speaking to so many college men;” and Bobbie, bending low over the hand he held in his own, had scarce time for a word before she was speaking to his chum next to him, and in a minute all the boys were crowding around and holding out their hands to grasp hers. A moment more and she would be gone. Bobbie slipped out of the line and touched her arm. “Dorothy,” he whispered, “give me your card: these fellows will get every dance before I have a chance.” His tone was the old imperious one he used as a child when determined to have his way. Dorothy looked in his face for a moment, hesitated, smiled, and then handed her card to him, and recklessly he scribbled here and there, until she protested, and made him give it back. Now she was gone, and he could see her dancing down the long room, while dozens of eyes watched her eagerly, for Dorothy was fair to look upon to-night.