Poor Gert! Was this what she meant by a good time? To be limp and silly like that, with her dress slipping off her shoulder and people staring at her and laughing at her? "I don't want to dance!" she said impatiently, shaking off Mac's hand. The steaming hall, reeking with tobacco smoke and stale beer, the men and women with painted faces and blackened eyes leering and languishing at each other, the snatches of suggestive song and jest, filled her with sudden disgust. "I'm going home," she announced with determination. "But, Nance!" pleaded Mac, "you can't go until we've had our dance." But for Nance the spell was broken, and her one idea was to get away. When she found Birdie she became more insistent than ever. "Why not see it out?" urged Mac. "I don't want to go home." "You are as hoarse as a frog now," said Monte. "Glad of it! Let's me out of singing in the choir to-morrow--I mean to-day! Who wants another drink?" Birdie did, and another ten minutes was lost while they went around to the refreshment room. The storm was at its height when at four o'clock they started on that mad drive home. The shrieking wind, the wet, slippery streets, the lightning flashing against the blurred wind-shield, the crashes of thunder that drowned all other sounds, were sufficient to try the nerves of the steadiest driver. But Mac sped his car through it with reckless disregard, singing, despite his hoarseness, with Birdie and Monte, and shouting laughing defiance as the lightning played. Nance sat very straight beside him with her eyes on the road ahead. She hated Birdie for having taken enough wine to make her silly like that; she hated the boys for laughing at her. She saw nothing funny in the fact that somebody had lost the latch-key and that they could only get in by raising the landlady, who was sharp of tongue and free with her comments. "You girls better come on over to my rooms," urged Monte. "We'll cook your breakfast on the chafing-dish, won't we, Mac?" "Me for the couch!" said Birdie. "I'm cross-eyed, I'm so sleepy." "I'm not going," said Nance, shortly. "Don't be a short-sport, Nance," urged Birdie, peevishly. "It's as good as morning now. We can loaf around Monte's for a couple of hours and then go over to my room and change our clothes in time to get to the station by seven. Less time we have to answer questions, better it'll be for us." "I tell you I ain't going!" protested Nance, hotly. "Yes, you are!" whispered Mac softly. "You are going to be a good little girl and do whatever I want you to." Nance grew strangely silent under his compelling look, and under the touch of his hand as it sought hers in the darkness. Why wasn't she angry with Mr. Mac as she was with the others? Why did she want so much to do whatever he asked her to? After all perhaps there was no harm in going to Mr. Monte's for a little while, perhaps--