“Maybe not the whole of it. I see your point. There are many girls that could get me going without falling for ’em. Sal’s that kind. But there’s something more with you—I’m really interested in you as a person, besides wanting to kiss you and all that.” “Well, I’m glad you’re interested in me as a person, because you’re not going to kiss me and all that,” Joy retorted. “Oh yes, I am. Don’t fool yourself.” “Oh, no, you’re not. Don’t fool yourself.” The conversation resolved itself into a spirited argument along this theme with variations. An old theme, but one which never fails to keep the debaters keyed to a white-hot pitch of concentration. In this case Joy and Packy were so intent that they nearly passed the Ocean House, the long line of automobiles parked on the shore-drive arresting their attention just in time. “Well, we can continue this in our next,” said Packy as they climbed out. Joy had never been in a summer hotel, a fact that she did not tell Packy. There was an assortment of all ages in the ball room, with a predominance of the “younger set.” Pretty girls with healthily-flushed or tanned faces and sunburnt necks which ended before their evening gowns began, spoke to Packy as they whirled by on the arms of equally tanned youths, and looked wonderingly at Joy, whose white skin proclaimed her no member of the summer band. She watched the dancers over his shoulder. The young girls all seemed so wholesome—as innocent and adorable as kittens—— “You’re not peeved, are you, Joy?” asked Packy. “You haven’t spoken a word since we got on the floor.” “I was thinking about something else,” she said—marking the close scrutiny bent on her by an older woman sitting on the side lines. She was rather an attractive woman—but her eyes were chill, and they rested on Joy as if there was something wrong with her. It was the Boston frigidity she had heard so much about, she supposed. The music stopped, and he led her across the floor. “The girls are losing an eye on you,” he said, “so I might as well satisfy them first as last.” They went to a corner where two sunburned couples were seeing which could hang out of the window the farthest, and he effected a somewhat informal introduction. “Come in out of the night, Betty Grey,” he added as one of the girls was still hanging over the sill and shrieking back that she had won—“here’s a singer—you’re always saying you never meet any interesting people.” The waving feet righted themselves, and a brown, eager face turned to Joy. “Oh, are you _really_ a singer?” Betty cried breathlessly. “That’s what’s been the dream of my life—to be a singer—but I can’t even keep on the key! What do you sing?” “Nothing, yet,” said Joy; “I’m just studying.” “You ought to hear her sing,” put in Packy. “She’s got everyone I ever heard surrounded.” Betty fairly wriggled with excitement. “I _must_ hear you! When will you sing for me?”