What a gulf had lain between this inn, with its airily dressed girls and their cavaliers, and the chill, dusky room where at dawn she had made Loomis’s coffee before he took the early train to Portland. Her hand tightened on Irving’s arm while she recalled the amorous advances of Mrs. Pogram’s brother, and his change, after her repulsion, to anger and a mean revenge. A long, inaudible breath came quivering to her lips as she glided on under her partner’s perfect guidance. Rosalie loved dancing as only the artistic nature can love it, and the rising and falling waves of music went to her brain like wine. “Cruel Betsy! Wise Betsy!” she thought. “Do you remember,” said Irving, “the last time I held you like this?” “I’m afraid I’m very dull,” she replied. “Did we dance together in some previous incarnation?” “Don’t you wish to remember, Rosalie?” “Indeed I do,” she rejoined brightly. “Your dancing couldn’t be improved.” Irving kept silence. He was entirely aware that he was beginning exactly as Betsy had implored him not to do; but he began to suspect shrewdly that Betsy’s lecture was a shield which had two sides, and that one of them had been presented to this girl. Hadn’t his mentor said that Rosalie—and the latter’s totally changed manner— “Betsy will end by making a conceited ass out of me,” he reflected, with the relief human nature finds in discovering some one else to blame for its discomfort. The dance over, he took his partner out on the veranda, where couples were promenading in the damp coolness. He found some chairs in a remote corner. “These are tolerably dry,” he said. “Shall we sit here?” “I mustn’t,” she answered. “Why not? Too cold?” “Not for me, but too damp for my gown.” Irving glanced over it in the dusk. “I have an idea that that is something pretty fine,” he said. “I want to see the black one.” Rosalie colored. “Shame on Betsy!” she said, laughing. “Has she told everybody?” “No one but me, you may be sure. Betsy knows that I am so perfectly trustworthy, she tells me everything. Did she ever give me a character to you?” “Yes—No—I don’t know. Let’s go into the house, Mr. Bruce. This gown must last me for years, and _years_.” Irving obediently led the girl within doors, where, in a corner of the hall, in lieu of palms, were set Christmas trees in tubs. Into a seat behind these he ushered her. “I’m afraid my next partner can’t find me here,” she said doubtfully. “We have the next together.” “Oh, I don’t think so, Mr. Bruce!” “I know it, Rosalie. I wonder why I venture to call you Rosalie.” As he spoke Irving took up her fan and began to use it as he gazed at her girlish profile. “I don’t know,” she returned, a little pulse beating in her throat. “I think, myself, Miss Vincent would sound better.” “Ah, Betsy!” thought Irving, closing his teeth. “I’ll pay you for this.” “What need of formality between sworn friends?” he asked.