“Better talk to Tom Barton, then. See, he is asking her to dance,” was Will Ransom’s reply, and glancing where Gertie sat, Godfrey saw Tom bending before the child, who, remembering the insult on the night of the party, coolly declined the honor intended her without offering an excuse. But Tom understood her, and after standing an awkward moment and regarding her intently, he said: “Miss Gertie, you are right to refuse me unless I apologize for my rudeness the other night. I was drunk, to speak plain, and did not know what I was doing. I beg your pardon, and by and by if I ask you to dance I hope you will not refuse.” Tom could be very agreeable and polite, and in spite of his fault he was a favorite with many, and when he spoke so frankly to Gertie she felt that she forgave him, and promised to join him in the next dance if he liked. Gertie did not lack for partners that night, and what was best of all, they were from the “_crême de la crême_” of the town. Will Ransom twice, Robert Macpherson twice, Tom Barton once, and at last Godfrey himself, who had only danced the first set in order to get the thing going, he said. It was the Lancers, Gertie’s favorite, and Godfrey led her to a conspicuous place, and all through the dance felt a thrill of pride in the graceful creature, who seemed to float rather than walk through the different changes. A little apart Edith stood, watching the child, wondering at her skill. With a sign to Godfrey she made him understand that he was to bring Gertie to her when the dance was ended. “Who taught you to dance?” she asked, as she looked down upon the sparkling face. “I had a teacher in London two quarters,” was Gertie’s reply, and then as her hand was claimed again she glided away, leaving Edith to watch and wonder and try to recall, if possible, the face or the expression of which Gertie reminded her.