"Why", Nick Cluett crossed his knees, dropped his elbow across the uppermost leg, and leaned his broad shoulders forward till his hard bulging triceps muscle touched her arm, "Bob Masterman--he's the fellow looks after my business--is getting up a little party after the boxin' show to-morrow night, and bringing along his girl. How would you like to come as _my_ partner? Eh, little sporto?" "I don't know," said Daisy, guardedly. "Where's the party at?" "Our rooms, likely," said Nick Cluett, coolly; "little supper--game o' cards--any old thing to kill time. Bob!" A plump man in a check suit detached himself from a group near by. "Bob, Miss--what's this your name is, again?--Miss Nixon here's to have first chance to round out our little party of four to-morrow night. She'll let you know at the end of the dance if she can come." "Sure she'll come," said Mr. Masterman, unctuously, as he held Daisy's hand and breathed cigar-breath copiously into her face; "sure she'll come." He pumped the hand up and down, and tilted his fat face to one side. "Beat it," said Mr. Cluett, tersely. Mr. Masterman promptly obeyed, glancing back coquettishly over one plethoric shoulder as he rejoined his group. The music started again. Nick Cluett and Daisy stood up, linked, and were off. Probably no greater sum total of sheer glowing virility was ever contained in any couple of dancers than in the flushed ecstatic girl and the dark puma-like man who danced, as he fought, with a beautiful "footwork" that the eye could admire, but that the watcher could not emulate. Daisy, who had always been a good dancer, was on her mettle as she saw other couples stop to watch; and the two footed it in a perfect accord that was a treat to see. Masterman, who never had to be told verbally what any situation in which Cluett was concerned required, slipped over and passed a bill and a billet to the orchestra leader at the time when the music usually came to a pause; and the dance continued without the usual intermission. Cluett, to whom dancing was as casual as boxing practice, had his attention free to contemplate his partner as she glided, warm and full of zest and delight, in the sinewy band of his arm. What with his dancing reputation and his boxing fame, he had been surfeited with attention from girls, until they had become a little flat and flavorless to him; but there was something so new and natural in Daisy's expression, and something so fresh and forthright in what he had heard of her talk, that his relish awoke. "You're some kid," he said, squeezing her arm as he led her to the seat at the side of the room, when the dance was done; "hey, waiter!" An attendant with a tray came over, lithely and quickly. "Name your dope, Dimples," said Mr. Cluett. "Anything," responded Daisy, answering with all her merry might to the name bestowed, as she beamed up into the dark face with its hard lines and continual smile, "anything that you think's good for me, Mr. Cluett."